


and possibly i like the thrill

by Silverhelme, Sucho89



Series: and possibly I like the thrill [1]
Category: Ghostbusters (2016), Ghostbusters - All Media Types
Genre: Background Yatesbert, Dissociation, Dubious Science, F/F, Femslash, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Pining, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension, bisexual character of colour, female character of colour, gen scenes a-plenty, jewish holtzmann, neurodivergent holtzmann, nightclubs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2018-08-18 10:39:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 83,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8159185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverhelme/pseuds/Silverhelme, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sucho89/pseuds/Sucho89
Summary: It doesn't start when she walks in on Holtzmann rocking the air saxophone to “Careless Whisper" a week after the Times Square incident, but it's sure as hell the moment Patty stops stock-still in the open doorway and thinks damn, this might be a problem.A historian and an engineer fall into something a little like love. Slowly, backwards, and inside out.





	1. guilty feet have got no rhythm

It doesn't start when she walks in on Holtzmann rocking the air saxophone to “Careless Whisper" a week after the Times Square incident, but it's sure as hell the moment Patty stops stock-still in the open doorway and thinks _damn_ , this might be a problem. A problem with one jodhpur-clad leg flung into the air and wearing three pairs of goggles as she jives out in the middle of the Chinese restaurant, loudly vocalizing along with the smooth tones of George Michael and sliding across the shitty linoleum on her knees. Oblivious to Patty having a total romantic revelation six feet away. 

Not that Patty didn't notice the walking smirk in oxfords as soon as she strolled into the station all those weeks ago, or the shape of her pretty little ass in the dim tunnel light, pushing that rattling cart of expensive-looking equipment and veering dangerously close to the third rail _well_ after being warned. 

That should have been a warning right off, actually. Goddamn Holtzmann. 

(“ _You're mouthy, I like that_ ," she'd smirked, sending a lingering once-over down Patty's wrinkled MTA uniform like she was sizing her up for another, more naked ensemble.

 _Yeah I bet you do, baby_ was on the tip of her tongue, Patty's libido chiming in that she wouldn't kick the wild-eyed blonde out of bed if given the chance. Patty can do mouthy, Patty's _damn good_ at every kind of mouthy and hang on babe, you ain't seen nothin' _yet_ —

That fantasy cut short by the other two women hailing Holtzmann over to sniff subway trash, like what kind of middle-class white people nonsense...? Except it wasn't just subway trash and then there was a ghost. Again.)

Holtzy's still crooning, undulating across the dining room like a goddamn ballerina on speed, still tooting her imaginary sax and Patty laughs weakly, slides over the floor to join in with almost none of her usual rhythm. The engineer's face lights up like a spark plug when she twirls, the pair of goggles bunched around her neck knocking against her "Screw U" pendant—and _damn_ , Patty's always liked a woman who appreciates a good necklace. Holtzy throws out a hand in invitation and she grabs it, lets herself spin till the room is wheeling.

Fuck, _fuck_ she is so off her game, and it's almost entirely worth it when Holtzy cackles, reaches for a blowtorch and bellows "Sing it, Pats!" into the propane flame, those trademark glasses still swaying lopsidedly from one ear.

A problem. 

_No shit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To help with your bearings whilst reading, [HERE](http://oi66.tinypic.com/20jol6h.jpg) are the plans for our version of the firehouse.


	2. get under my skin

Half a week and five hours to the day—and Patty knows _exactly_ when, because Abby's been harassing the mayor’s office on the daily to negotiate funding since that night in the bar, and in the last two of those days Holtzmann’s been setting an egg timer on the _hour_ to test some sort of twisted experimental Pavlov’s dogs theory, and to maybe drive their crazy asses up the greasy restaurant walls—the key to their future arrives, attached to one hesitant mayor’s assistant.

She’s going ham on a copy of _Quantum Energy Matter Creations_ , pink highlighter flashing because when she asked if she could notate, Holtzmann had chomped her teeth in Patty’s general direction and raised her eyebrows like an invitation, and _to what_ is just not something Patty’s been up for considering lately. Things are weird as hell and that’s not just because Holtzy’s sat across the table soldering a soda can shut for no apparent reason.

Enter Jennifer Lynch in their sliding doorway, clutching her grey blazer to her chest like every possible surface is covered in radiation and it’s not, probably, but Patty doesn’t blame her, perking up from her seat with a smile and giving a little wave, extending an easy compliment in greeting. 

“Oh, hey! You know those are some nice shoes, I’d wear those shoes.”

The mayor’s assistant jerks a glimpse to her feet with some panic, as if making sure her four-inch pumps remain unsullied from the sticky outline of dried Coke in the middle of the checkered floor, uneasily sidestepping across the linoleum as she scans the dining room critically. “How do you… _women_ … live, like this?”

“It’s not all bad. Sometimes the toilet overflows and pizza crusts come with it.” Holtzy doesn’t even glance up from her soldering gun, and Patty wrinkles her nose, shaking her head and tucking back into her journal with a sigh.

“Please just forget she said that, it ain’t true.”

“ _Abby…_?” Holtzmann’s voice wafts up melodically from behind her, and _dammit_ why can’t people just listen to Patty, Patty knows how to behave.

“Yeah, that happened once.” Emerging from where she’s been scribbling equations with Erin across their greying whiteboard, the woman in question holds up a finger, aiming their visitor a sheepish look. “Oh hey, have you gotten—”

“—Here’s the keys to the firehouse, please just… treat it better than this place.” Jennifer shoves an envelope at Abby before any further contact, retreating a step back like the room’s about to blow.“We’re still setting up your insurance and liability, so don’t do anything without letting us know. Ghost-busting-wise. Also the vehicle expenses are being processed, so we’ll be in touch.”

Patty sets her book down with _hey, about my uncle’s hearse_ at the ready; it’s the perfect opening except then the damn shrill _egg timer_ goes off and everyone jumps except Holtzmann, and Patty whirls to glare because she knows _damn well_ it wasn’t due for another twenty-seven minutes. “Not cool, man.”

Recovering rapidly and apparently hot to trot away from a low-budget Chernobyl sequel, the mayor’s assistant is already frowning on her way out the door.

“Just, try not to blow the place up.”

“No promises,” calls Holtzy, smirking like a candy snake and she aims her lethal wink right at Patty, who purses her lips and silently pencils _Goddamn Holtzmann_ at the top of her mental shit list; the girl does not know when to _quit._

Abby looks like she wants to respond but she’s too busy fumbling the keyring out of its envelope, reverently holding up their prize. “ _Ohh_ , jiminy crickets…” She’s bright with excitement as Erin peeks over her shoulder, beaming from ear to ear and it’s nice, she doesn’t smile enough and Patty hopes that’ll change with their new digs. Sliding off her own stool she ventures closer, away from Dr. Doom over there with her countdown clock, and she has to shove the niggling itch to witness Holtzy’s reaction deep down, burying it under a few important organs for good measure. Patty is not doing this today thank you very much, Patty is a goddamn _adult_.

“Abby I can’t believe we’re doing this, we’ll have a _real lab—_ ” And Erin’s burying her face in her best friend’s neck, both squealing excitement. “And we’re _funded—_ ” Her sheer joy is infectious and Patty grins, clapping her hands and rolling her hips into a shimmy, whooping to the open room.

“We’re the Ghostbusters, and we got a _firehouse_!”

 

 

***

 

Trust Abby to play den mother to the entire moving situation, stacking crates in their rented van like it’s nuclear Tetris, clapping her hands and shouting misplaced encouragement around a stack of dented file boxes like a motivational speaker from hell. 

“Guys come _on_ , we’ve only got the van for two more hours and we gotta get the rest of these boxes out, we’re almost done! And can someone please remind Kevin we’re moving? Every time I tell him he just looks lost.” At mention of their errant receptionist Erin peeks up from where she’s meticulously packing file folders, and Patty doesn’t miss the hopeful little glance around and oh _honey_ , that’s just sad.

“Oh, Patty! Here, can you get that crate? Next to Erin’s elbow, yep that one—oh and Holtzmann, don’t forget your box of bats.”

 _She_ is _bats_ , is all Patty can think, tucking the battered crate of physics books under one arm and not bothering to bask in the relief of a haul that doesn’t scream _CAUTION, FLAMMMABLE!!!!! !!!_ across the side in Abby’s well-intentioned scrawl, because the next one probably will.

“I’m on it.” The engineer’s already strolling past Patty with a lazy stretch that lifts her cutoff shirt well above her waistline, reaching for the edges of their scarred lab table and hauling herself up ass-first, flashing a grin as her boots squeak across the tabletop and Erin cringes, knocking a set of extension cords off the side. “Good thing you reminded me, I’ll be needing them later.”

And then the bitch pushes up on her tiptoes, pops a ceiling tile and shakes down a shower of mice shit and dust that makes Erin scream, grunting as she draws out a shoebox missing a lid and filled to the brim with rubber Halloween bats of varying sizes, and Patty’s not even going to ask herself what she was expecting because that would be normal. She shakes her head instead, quietly despairing while Holtzy blows a cloud of debris off her find with a manic grin and why the _hell_ is she feeling fond, that’s fucking disgusting and no real person lives like this. It’s probably because she didn’t sleep long enough last night, she’s off her groove. Maybe it’s her pillow.

Abby considers the mess for a moment before turning back to Kevin’s empty chair in the entry, nonplussed. “Maybe I should just leave a note on his desk. It can’t hurt.”

 

***

 

The sun is hanging low in the sky, orange light filtering in through the windows by the time Patty’s trudging up the firehouse stairs, glad at least she wore her Nikes because after lugging in the other half of the lab today, her calves are absolutely killing. She’s looking forward to a scalding hot shower tonight, or maybe a bath if she can get her tub to hold water… _yeah_ , with those sea salt things she bought last month from Lush, because she’s worth it.

“ _Abby_ , I just don’t _think_ our equation board should be next to the containment unit—” Erin’s disapproval floats up from down below, voice terse as she counters Abby’s tired _why not_ and Patty sighs, pausing halfway up to wince at the carnage of boxes spread everywhere across the open first floor, with no apparent rhyme or reason except the order they were schlepped inside.

Holtzmann’s nowhere to be seen and she’s probably still out rummaging in the van that’s three hours overdue and while Abby’s optimism started off real cute, the woman should have _known_ there was no way in hell they’d ever finish on time with the sheer amount of heavy-duty equipment the Ghostbusters have accumulated since Patty joined up.

Not to mention all the miscellaneous shit.

(“ _What can I say? I’ve got a real knack for climbing into things_ ,” Holtzy had grinned the last time they’d gone for a sandwich run, aiming Patty a cheesy thumbs-up before falling ass-over-tits into the closest dumpster, emerging with those gangly arms full of used glow sticks and banana peel in her hair. “ _See?_ _Jackpot._ ”)

Abby’s started filibustering and that’s Patty’s cue to go, finishing her dragging climb with an armful of old textbooks from her college days, and a few newer ones that she’s aching to sink her teeth into, preferably sooner than later with the next few days of settling in. “Not countin’ on quiet though, with this crowd.”

The second floor is cool and silent, the bright fluorescents of downstairs abandoned for the dying light of Manhattan at dusk, and Patty could get used to this, paused at the top of the stairs and just _breathing_ in the space for a long moment, eyes flickering shut and exhaling some of the tension in her shoulders. It’s getting used to the muffled hum of the window units from upstairs, and the quiet bickering downstairs of her friends, and the slowly-dawning reality of _here_ meaning _home_.

No more stale Chinese food or sticky floors, or the unending smell of urine basically guaranteed to hang around any MTA station, no matter how stupid clean she kept her booth—and no more graffiti artists who _can’t even spell, good lord_.

Patty’s made it, and as she surveys her sturdy little bookshelf, cheerfully-patterned sofa, and the antique coffee table all moved into position, it feels real. It feels like destiny, and the part in _Star Trek_ episodes where they say that thing about exploring new worlds that always made her tear up as a kid, and it’s overwhelming, because. Because Patty’s never really had one of those moments where you look around and realise that everything in your life is changing for the better, but she’s having one now. And. It’s a _lot._

“Nice sofa. Who’d you shake out to get that?”

The voice jolts her out of her moment and Patty jerks in surprise to find Holtzmann watching her keenly from the top of the stairs, trying to shake off the weird stiffness that coils in her gut at the sight of Holtzy moving past her reading nook, somehow carrying three boxes at once. And hell, Patty’s exhausted but she didn’t even _hear_ her come up, and she is. She’s really out of it.

She watches as the engineer heads across the space, setting down her burden on the tile near the window, and Holtzmann’s words finally float back to her; Patty imagines herself holding that pushy Ikea salesman up by his fancy patterned socks and jostling him as a cartoonishly full sofa set falls out of his pockets, complete with the sunshine yellow ottoman she didn’t buy _but will_ , when their mayor-ordained pay checks finally come through. It’s an entertaining image, but Patty’s smile still feels strained as she shrugs, attempting somewhere between cool and casual and likely coming off as neither.

“Ikea special, baby. Got my cousin to help me move it last night after y’all went home.”

There’s a discerning pause as the engineer glances over her couch’s gleefully busy pattern, gaze brief but astute. “I’ve got a pair of cargos just like it.”

Holtzmann heads back down the stairs with that parting observation and Patty can only stare after her, groaning once she’s left and shuffling the books still stacked in the crook of her elbow, muttering into the coffee-stained cover of Gillon’s _Beaux-Arts Architecture in New York_. Sure she’s tired and it’s late but _seriously, Patty, get your shit together._

And so she does her best to buckle down and do just that; she’s sliding _Brooklyn: A State of Mind_ into the gap on the top shelf when Holtzmann comes tramping up the steps _so loudly_ that her earlier pussyfooting was either fully intentional, or a wildly unprecedented coincidence. Anyone’s game at this point.

“You need a hand there, Holtzy?”

“Ah, sure. Knock yourself out.” The engineer in question has a stubborn set to her jaw like she’s holding in a grunt, laden with another double set of boxes, and a folding wire rack that dwarfs her almost comically. Patty remembers it living beside the wall of proton packs in the restaurant and from painful experience that it’s not light, so she beelines for that, teasing as she slides it onto her own shoulders.

“This thing’s bigger than you… where’s Kevin when you need him, huh?”

“I told him he should go play in traffic and haven’t seen him since. Maybe he finally got something right.”

Patty huffs a chuckle under her breath. “Don’t tell Erin, she’ll run out after him.”

“Modern Romeo and Juliet,” Holtzmann deadpans, stooping to set her boxes along the far wall, and Patty figures she better clarify even as she lugs the shelf towards the rest of the mess.

“Know where you want this?”

“Window, please.”

“You bringin’ up a lot more tonight?” It feels later than the reality, but at least on Patty’s end she’s bone tired and everything else feels just this side of _too much_ _effort_ , maybe even including going back to Brooklyn tonight. Maybe she’ll crash here, try out the sofa. Maybe find out if that Ikea guy was full of shit.

Holtzy straightens up from her box and turns around, scratching the back of her neck and ruffling her frizzled nest of curls with a tight exhale, something flickering across her face that looks almost like defeat, and she fidgets almost stiffly with the rim of her glasses. “I’m trying. Can’t set up much without the tables.”

A moment passes between them, fleeting and silent but their eyes meet and it’s _off_ , watching each other almost warily and _fine_ , so Patty’s insides have completely lost their chill around Holtzmann and she’s just trying to accept that weirdness and move on, but that doesn’t explain Holtzy’s near-identical expression. At all.

“You have anything I can help with?” Her voice is low, with that raw, scrape-the-bottom edge to it that does illegal things to Patty’s stomach, or maybe that’s just the hunger talking. They did skip lunch, so that’s definitely maybe the reason, and obviously explains why it also takes her a solid fifteen to shake her head, shrugging at the same time because low blood sugar, it’s serious stuff.

“Nah, just the bookshelf, and I’m too tired to organize it properly tonight.” Holtzy jerks her chin in a slow nod, eyes going a bit soft at the edges like she’s staunchly resisting the urge to rest, and that tiny show of vulnerability is enough for Patty, who abandons her evening plans and earlier frustration with zero regrets, asking instead. “Hey Holtzy, you like pad thai?”

“Never had it.”

Okay, well for someone who scarfs cheesesteaks and street cart falafel like it’s going out of style, that is just a _tragic_ oversight on Holtzmann’s part and Patty’s eyes narrow, shaking her head in sorry disbelief. “Okay well we’re fixing that _now,_ because frankly I’m embarrassed for you. And we can bring some back for Abby and Erin too,” she adds, reaching for her purse and shuffling into her jacket. “I can _still_ hear them arguing about that damn whiteboard, don’t know how they’ve got the energy.”

“Unstoppable force, meet immovable object,” Holtzy elucidates, bounding past her and towards the stairs, her chunky-heeled boots thunking as she informs Patty over her shoulder, ready smirk tugging at her lips. “You’re paying. Compensation for taking up my floor space.”

Her grin is dangerous and brilliant and somewhere in the back of Patty’s mind she takes stock of this entire glorious mess, and the facts are these: Jillian Holtzmann, Ph.D. is an insufferable little shit, and Patty wouldn’t have her any other way. And wow, _wow_ _this is still such a problem_.

“Sweetie I told you, you _can’t_ claim a whole floor! And I’m warnin' you now, you get any of that hydrochloric shit within six feet of my sofa, it’s war. Patty’s reading couch is off-limits.”

Holtzy’s already clattered a fews steps down the stairs, but that messy blonde head’s cocked to the side with teeth flashing as she slants a look back up to Patty that makes her blush; something wicked this way comes, and spoiler alert, it’s Holtzmann. “Even for my little _tush_?”

(“ _Hey Patty, got you a present_.” The day she’d joined, Abby and Holtzy with chilli dogs for dinner, and a plastic Lady Liberty crown fished out of a dumpster and delivered into Patty’s hands with a flourishing bow. “ _You’re statuesque_.”)

Girl’s got a real knack for climbing into things, alright. Like the way she’s climbed right into Patty’s chest with a particle accelerator headed straight for her heart, and _apocalypse_ will be an understatement when everything goes critical.

And there’s a long list of things she wants to say, like _fine but not with food_ or _dunno if I trust you_ or _maybe you could sit on my lap instead,_ and instead. Instead she just takes a long, soft look at Holtzy, whose smirk could light a cigarette, and Patty says the one thing she knows will keep that grin on all the way to dinner and back.

“As long as it’s not covered in anything gross, baby, your little tush can go anywhere it wants.”

 


	3. caught between the moon and new york city

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part II of this series, [Gee baby, ain't I good to you](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9923051) is set just prior to the final scene of this chapter, gives our girls more backstory (especially Holtzmann) and lays some backstory groundwork for chapter seven.

It seems like the most obvious outcome on earth, but Patty fucking loves their firehouse. Good ol’ Hook and Ladder No. 8, official nerve center of the Ghostbusters, mission control. The place where the wifi automatically connects, except in that one weird Bermuda Triangle of nothingness under the second-floor stairs, which Patty can’t outright _prove_ is Holtzmann’s fault, but she’s willing to stake some serious capital on the hunch.

When they stood in Times Square and risked their butts to save New York, it was because it was the right damn thing to do, not because they were expecting praise, or a bomb-ass reward that added up to a fully-funded lab and city employee health benefits. The four of them were so ready to go down fighting for their city and everybody in it, that once they made it out alive and got smacked with a mayor-issued sanction for their troubles, it felt like a weird surrealist joke. Like that hefty paycheck and promise of a future would melt faster than Dali’s clocks once they reached for it, because ghost girls don’t get believed or thanked.

But it somehow didn’t, and now that they got all of that—and miraculously didn’t actually explode along the way to getting there—Patty’s started branching out, spending more time exploring their new HQ outside the capacity of the job, because _hello_ , they’ve set up shop in one of the very first Beaux-Arts style firehouses in town, where every single brick in the wall’s got a different story. And Patty needs to learn _all_ of them.

She starts with the roof.

There’s a vantage up here that even her cosy little reading nook can’t touch, a freedom that comes from sitting on top of three stories of scientific jargon and the faint but near-constant odor of burning that’s either wafting off the downstairs containment unit, or means that Kevin’s pressed the popcorn button again. The air’s cooler up here too and it’s the City, so things don’t exactly smell fresh to death, but it’s a start. Pacing round the perimeter, looking down at the street below and maneuvering around the skylights, at the wide spread of unclaimed territory, and hey, there’s a thought: rooftop garden. Maybe some basil here, mint there. Little boxes of African violets, maybe a rubber plant… and a reading chair, right _there_ in that corner.

Next time, she brings a book.

It’s little less than a month since they’ve moved in and October’s not so far off, a nippy evening breeze at her cheeks while Patty’s stretched in a rickety desk chair, thumbing through a battered copy of subway history she bought way back before applying to the MTA and smiling over her scribbled notes from years ago. She’d been so ambitious, so hopeful that she could _do_ something with all this knowledge stuffed into her head since the day she discovered books, even trapped in a little plastic booth at a low-ridership station. Maybe even get another degree, talk about her passion full-time and get paid for it; that’d be _livin’_.

A car horn sounds from the street below, and Patty’s got ears trained for filtering out the unnecessary minutia of day-to-day din, because New York’s a throbbing heart constantly pumping life through the city, but something about this one makes her glance up, anyway—and she promptly drops the book in her lap, because _holy fuckin’ shit, is that for us_ —and it is, Patty bolting up from her chair and down the stairs, whooping her joy.

“Hot damn!”

When she finally gets her girls up to the roof it’s with a flourish, Patty throwing out a hand and grinning like wild, her own pounding heart _aching_ with love for her New York, not to mention that she feels epic as hell—they’re only three floors up but she’s on top of the whole damn world right now, and reaches for Erin beside her in a crushing embrace, thrilled to her core. Because as far as they can see, Manhattan is lit up with their initials, with hearts, with the motherfucking _Empire State Building_ telling them it loves the Ghostbusters, and Patty’s stood here with her crew and there’s tears in her eyes, because this is how it feels to be alive in the right place, at exactly the right time. A perfect moment, and it doesn’t get better than this.

They stay up there for a long time, long after it’s gone dark because the lights are still gleaming and everyone’s had their phones out snapping pics, because this is a night to remember. And the mayor might not be publicly acknowledging his endorsement, but the rest of the city is sure as hell making up for it, and Patty’s never felt so proud to be a Ghostbuster, or so happy for joining this family of incredible, unbelievable women, because they earned this. Together.

Although of course Abby realises that they’ve left Kevin downstairs with Holtzmann’s formidable mentor, and that it’s only a matter of time before all hell breaks loose. Especially if their terrible receptionist actually takes it upon himself to touch anything near the containment unit, or interact with Dr. Gorin in any way. And so Patty’s scientists go trooping down the stairs while she calls after them that she’ll be there soon, she just… wants to watch up here, a little longer. Finds her chair, resuming her seat with the anthology in her lap but unopened, gazing out on her city with soft eyes, and there’s a long moment before she realises that Holtzy’s still there, still kicking it at the top of the stairs like she’s waiting around.

The engineer sends a little nod towards her book, grin sweet and quiet, like she’s been saving it for a special occasion. It makes Patty’s insides dance. “You havin’ fun, Pats?”

“Oh, hey baby. Yeah, history of the first pneumatic transit here in the city. Been meaning to brush up on it, just in case we’re back down in the subways again.” There’s so many things she wants to share with Holtzy, so many places to take her—the old City Hall Station, for a start, because the tiled arch system _alone_ would be a treat for any engineer to witness, not to mention the delicate glass ceiling that stirs a lump in her throat just thinking of it and sweet _lord_ , they live in such an _amazing damn place_.

There’s a lull in the conversation and Patty looks back over the lights, heart still swollen with love and pride for this beautiful messy sprawl of a city and the people in it, though from the corner of her eye she watches the shorter woman stealing closer in an awkward crab-shuffle, hands jammed tight in those bucket-sized trouser pockets and scuffing her boots on the floor.

“Are you missing it?” Her tone is off, like she’s trying to sound casual but it’s forced as hell, and Patty can hear the words clinging to each other as they fall outta Holtzy’s mouth, sticky and serious and _wrong_. Like she’s on the edge of a cliff and another breath might push her over, and that’s just not kosher.

So instead Patty aims her a dimpled grin, dumping as much fondness as possible into her words without Holtzmann actually finding out that she wants to jump her compact little bones. “Hell no, Holtzy. I been havin’ the time of my life with your crazy ass.”

And bingo, that mad-scientist smile is back in spades and Holtzy taps her nose, eyes agleam like she’s just found the lost city of Atlantis, and it runs on solar. “You should see the new ghost trap I just finished. _Guaranteed_ carnage.”

“That so?” Holtzmann just waggles those blonde brows like a road hazard sign, beaming as Patty pushes up from her seat, book safely in hand because she may be a little drunk on infatuation with this human time bomb, but she’s damn well sober enough to have priorities. “Lead the way, Dr. Strangelove.”

“You coming down the pole with me?”

“Girl, you playin’.”

 

***

 

Patty Tolan’s no CERN-courted quantum physicist, but she’s smart enough to know she’s got a good—no, damn _great_ —thing going as she’s strolling up the sidewalk from Franklin Station, the last of her egg sandwich in hand and a hefty book of blueprints tucked under one arm; the sky is bright and her mood has skyrocketed with the crisp September breeze, blowing a kiss to the sexy red brick of their headquarters as she takes the crosswalk. “And a good mornin’ to _you_ , handsome.”

Inside the firehouse it’s mildly controlled chaos, with Kevin lingering dozily by the coffeepot and Abby motioning wildly at something on a shelf behind him. “Kev—Kevin, BUDDY. I need the file box _behind_ you, no—no no, _leave the coffeepot_ , it’s the blue box—oh for cripe’s sake, _just_ —!” 

Abby shoves past their brainless adonis of a secretary, digging out a rickety stepladder from behind the desk and muttering under her breath as Kevin drifts awkwardly back to the gurgling coffeemaker. And it’s like watching a trainwreck, or an SNL sketch where everybody breaks, and Patty’s leant against the row of lockers wondering if they should be testing him for some kind of brain worm, or one of those alien plagues from that toilet-grade history channel documentary she watched last night. Then again, his breed would probably be the first of its kind.

“Uh Abby, I could have gotten that for you.” Kevin flaps his hands a bit glumly, hovering even as the scientist in question composes herself, finally indicates the secretary desk with a deep breath, like she’s holding back years of exasperation and the woman’s got more stored-up patience than Patty ever will, but dealing with Kev is testing her limits for sure. 

“…You know what— _just_ —sit.” 

Kev drops into his seat and watches the silent phone for a full ten seconds before picking up the rubber band ball beside it and tossing it between his hands, like a golden retriever with triceps. It’s pathetic, how many people have probably thrown themselves at his big dumb head and missed because he wasn’t looking.

Speaking of, maybe somebody’s ears were burning, because just then Erin pokes her head through the front door, messenger bag over one shoulder and a fretful look scrawled all over her sweet face. “Um, guys? There’s a van out front, but I don’t think—”

“Oh, the sign guys!” Abby straightens up from where she’s stuffing away the ladder, pointer finger in the air like she’s just discovered new territory even as Erin shakes her head, sends Patty a pleading look.

“No, it’s somebody else, they look super—not legit, like _at all_ —” And the panicked edge to Erin’s voice is enough for her, so Patty’s abandoning her post against the lockers because she’s got this, dealing with _super not-legit_ commuters was like, her entire job at Seward Street. 

“I got this, Erin honey,” she calls and pats her nervous friend on the shoulder, striding out the front door like she owns the street, because the first step to making it is to look like you already have. Patty’s damn good at it; she’s a tall black babe looking fly as hell and a laugh loud enough to shake a room, and that adds up to a lifetime of practice feelin’ yourself. You have to, when your mere existence makes a whole lotta people uncomfortable.

Lo and behold, there’s a battered Ford E-Series parked out front, and Patty marches up to it ready to fight for their right to clear street access, which sounds less impressive in retrospect, but she’s still hyped.

“Hey, sir. _Sir_. Excuse me?” She’s tapping on the passenger window, MTA voice at the ready because he’s not even looking in her damn direction, and that’s just rude, you don’t ignore a fucking _lady_. She raps again, harder this time with a grim set to her jaw, and the dude turns around, cell phone pressed to his ear. He shouts something through the closed window which Patty glares at for a disgusted string of seconds, before making up her mind and crossing round to the driver’s side window, eyes narrowed as she scans the street for oncoming traffic, because Henrietta Tolan didn’t raise no fool. 

When she gets there the asshole averts his gaze, because of course he does, and _fine_ , _you asked for it_ , Patty knocks on the greasy glass till he growls and rolls it down, manual window descending inch by inch with a pained squeak, and if he wasn’t being such a dick she’d loan him out the WD-40 Erin’s been using on every possible set of firehouse hinges. 

“Listen man I don’t know who you think you are, but you need a permit to park here. And we got a guy comin’ to hang a sign, so I need you out.” 

“I’m on a call, fuck off.” And then he’s back to running his mouth into the phone and ignoring her completely, and Patty’s expression darkens, ready for a second go and to maybe snatch that phone off him when an ear-piercing wolf whistle splits the street, grabbing her attention by the ears and drawing her gaze all the way over the van and up the building, where— _oh, shit_.

Where Holtzmann’s hanging her pretty blonde head out the second-floor window (and how did she even get it open, Patty’s been trying to bust the stuck lock for a solid _week_ ) with a big goddamn gun in her hands, twice the size of a proton pack and those flat-faced googles lending her a bug-eyed look. The round goggles are slung about her neck again, caught up with her pendant and a scorched lab coat of indeterminate color, though Patty’s going with this season’s hottest shade of oil-slick puddle. 

"Patty, you want me to blast ‘em for you? I’ve been working on this new _shrink-ray_ technology—” Holtzy’s a solid story up but Patty can already see her itchy finger creeping towards the trigger, and the engineer’s leering like she’s just sent the firehouse up in flames. Patty wouldn’t put it past her. “—and I haven’t gotten to field test it yet!”

It’s tempting, because Patty’s still narked about van-man—who is _still on his phone, seriously?_ —but getting him blasted or miniaturized or exploded into atoms is probably (definitely) overkill, and she shakes her head wildly enough that Holtzy can’t miss it. “Hey— _no_ , this ain’t _honey I shrunk the kids_ , get back inside!”

Back to her current problem still flapping his gums and ignoring her shouting, Patty glares, punching the side of his dinged-up door with a growl. “Look dude you better move, or you might not like what happens.” Right on cue, there’s a familiar electronic purr not unlike the startup sound on her proton pack, and she jerks her head back up to Holtzmann, who not only has _not_ put the gun away, she’s turned it on. And Patty’s just trying to get all of them out of this without further issue, but no one’s cooperating and this is _so damn typical_.

Luckily for the asshole in the piece-of-shit van, she’s feeling generous enough to give him a final hint, stabbing a finger up to where the engineer is scowling behind the sight with one eye closed like a pirate, gun perched on the sill and glowing an ominous red.

“Last warnin’ you’re gonna get, man.”

The driver glares, craning his neck through the passenger window before recoiling with eyes wide, foot slamming onto the gas which just revs the engine, because he’s still in park and Patty could have told him that. She steps back as he fumbles with the gear shift and then the van is peeling out of the parking space and screeching off down the street in record time, though not without a vindicated slap to the bumper from Patty as she steps back onto the sidewalk.

“That’s right, you _better_ run!”

There’s a snicker from above and Holtzy’s still half-hanging out of the gaping window, cradling her gun and grinning like a maniac—and that seems like the fastest ticket to having those homeland security jokers back on their ass, because people in the café across the street are staring and that’s _so_ not good.

“Yo, Quick-Draw McGraw! Put that thing away, you’re scarin’ the tourists.” There’s the vocal counterpart of a sad trombone noise from above as the blonde head slinks back inside, weapon in tow. “And _me_ , a little bit.”

She glances to the firehouse door but after a moment’s thought, Patty tips her head back, knowing Holtzy can still hear her from the street; girl’s got the ears of a bat. “How’d you get that window open, anyway?”

The voice floats down in a smirk, no sign of the woman herself, which is definitely the more alarming of the two available options. “Good ol’ hydrochloric, never fails me.”

Ah. This doesn’t bode particularly well for Patty’s sofa.

 

***

 

It’s late into the afternoon when the Sign Guys (the actual name on their business card, and Patty’s all about credit where it’s due for straightforward marketing) finally leave, and the four of them crowd onto the sidewalk for the big reveal—which immediately devolves into Abby shouting _Oh guys, oh my god, look at it_ and jostling them together, trying to envelop all three women into the same hug at once because _look at it, look at our sign!_

Erin’s jumping up and down and throwing her arms around all of them while Patty hollers, clapping and whistling because they’re official, they have a headquarters, they have a _sign._ And then the phones come out again and they crowd together, bumping foreheads as Patty squeezes them into her camera view and takes a stack of selfies Abby’s sure to scrapbook later, grinning so hard she can feel her dimples pop.

“Hey, Pattycakes.” And Holtzy’s leaning into her, elbow nudging gently at her waist and feeling far too good for something that’s supposed to be _nothing_. And it’s a herculean effort these days to shove that entire balled-up mess into the back of her mental armoire, because it’s got a sex drive like a Maserati but with feelings, and _I would if you would_ , compounded with the surety that banging your coworker is the fastest way to a miserable work environment. Not even going to touch on the fact that banging one of your (newest, weirdest) best friends? _Abundantly_ worse.

So instead Patty just glances down from their friendly little ghost swaying in the breeze and hums an appropriately thoughtful noise, catching Holtzmann still grinning up at the sign before their gaze meets and it makes her chest thud, because the engineer’s eyes are _so_ bright.

“You know why I really dig our logo? It reminds me of you.”

And before Patty can comprehend, let alone respond to that, she’s off—eyes on the prize of a hot dog vendor down the block, and Patty’s left on the curb looking after her, and the little slice of her heart that Jillian Holtzmann somehow swiped off her while she wasn’t looking, because she can feel its absence already.

She’s not sure how much she misses it.

 

***

 

Their beds arrive early into the next week.

Patty’s the last to know, but it’s mostly because her elderly downstairs neighbour plugged a toaster oven and a hairdryer into the same outlet _again_ and shorted the power out in her entire walkup, and her trusty alarm never goes off. Instead she wakes with a start at half-past eight to her phone grinding off the nightstand, vibrating with a message from Abby that just reads _bedssss!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_ , and then a poorly-lit photograph of the firehouse’s third-floor sleeping quarters, and what appears to be Holtzmann, flopped out like a deceased starfish on the floor between a cluster of newly-built bed frames. At least, it _looks_ like Holtzmann. It could also be a cryptid. 

There had been a brief roundtable discussion with everyone gathered in the third-floor living room, in which they'd discussed—and summarily vetoed—the possibility of bunk beds (despite Holtzy’s fervid chants of " _top bunk, TOP BUNK_ ”) because they’re serious on-call ghostbusters, not sugared-up tweens at a sleepover. And because the sleeping quarters are spacious enough to sleep twice their number for a start, _double beds at the damn least_ was Patty’s contribution: if they (or the taxpayers of New York, really) are spending money on frames and mattresses to begin with, they better be comfortable enough to sleep in without contortionism, or nightmare college dorm flashbacks. Even if that sleeping is only part-time. 

True to universal law of already running late, Patty’s train is delayed an extra twenty minutes because the Transit Authority’s clearly hurting over her career change, and she’s greeted at the firehouse door by Erin, who looks vaguely guilty. “Oh sorry, everyone’s already picked beds…”

So Patty picks last but lucks out somehow anyway; her bunk is waiting for her by the window and it’s fairly obvious who’s sleeping where, because the other girls have clearly left their mark: Erin’s bed is already made up in perfectly muted shades of cream, with hospital corners so sharp Patty’s a little afraid she may tuck herself in too tight and get stuck. On the flip side of that Abby’s just looks cozy, with a cute patterned lamp on the sidetable, and a fleecy plaid throw draped across the end of her comforter like an HGTV special.

Across the room, Patty’s empty mattress waits like a canvas wanting paint, but the bed to her left is covered in a threadbare tangerine quilt, topped with a pillow that's seen better days and a lopsided squid plush toy, whose little sewn-on smile is half-unravelled but still somehow innocently cheerful despite the fact, and it’s unexpectedly cute. Holtzy’s, then. 

There’s a colony of orange pill bottles littering her nightstand, and it feels less like prying than simply observing because they're set out and impossible to miss; some with names Patty recognises, like Prozac and Adderal, and a few she doesn't. All of them marked with _Holtzmann, Jillian_ in that universally-bland pharmaceutical print, and her name looks oddly vulnerable without the Ph.D. tailing the end, smaller. There's no middle initial. 

And Patty’s just testing out her own mattress with a bouncy little sit (firm, but that’s back support) when the woman herself breezes through the door, sliding over the floor in mismatched socks and flinging herself onto that sad-looking blanket with a throaty laugh and hell, Patty already wants to buy her a new one. Without holes. 

But Holtzy’s already folding those lean muscled arms behind her head, ankles crossed as she slides a grin over the space between them, lobbing her glasses onto the covers by her feet.

“There’s a space _right here_ , if you’re interested.” She’s thumping a hand on the mattress at the place beside her, eyebrows tweaked like a Scooby Doo villain and Patty just laughs, because that’s a damn sight easier than giving in to the way her insides _twitch_ at the invitation. Because apparently that’s a thing that’s happening now, when Holtzy winks at her like that.

“Baby if I get back in bed now, I ain’t getting up again.”

“You wouldn’t have to do a _thing_ , just lay back and rel _ax._ ” Her voice is _dripping_ with this toe-curling, gut-deep smugness, absolutely _saturated_ with the stuff and _christ on a cracker_ , Patty’s got to get out of here. She needs a cold shower and a serious cup of coffee and she’s maybe thinking about calling up the National Science Foundation with a bid for Schroedinger’s seduction, the kind that that sounds like kidding but might also be completely serious and makes her wish she was young and dumb and up for anything, again.

Instead she just slants a raised brow towards the supine engineer, because that’s about as much as she’s got right now, and Holtzy’s sitting up in her defeat, legs akimbo as she grins. “Yeah, Erin didn’t take me up on that either.” There’s a long pause and Patty turns to excavate the raspberry duvet she ordered out of its shrink-wrap, barely hearing Holtzy’s question over the crackling plastic. “You alright?”

The blanket still has an overpowering synthetic smell and Patty wrinkles her nose, turning a glance over her shoulder as she spreads it out to air.

“Hm? Yeah, electric was out in my block last night, guess I didn’t sleep so well. I’m cool.” And that somehow doesn’t feel like enough, so she pops on a little smile. “Thanks for buildin’ my bed.”

“Eh, was a _breeze_.” The engineer tips her head back with a noncommittal sound, arms splayed to the sides like a kid miming an airplane, and Patty’s not so sure she isn’t, what with that toy squid stuffed in her lap. And then, rocking up like she’s just remembered something lightyears more exciting, with dirty socked feet waggling in the air over her quilt as she reaches for her glasses.

“Speaking _of_ , I’ve rebuilt your ghost-chipper. Modified the outer shell to make it stronger, better equipped to handle ghost-stomps. Threw in a photon shredder for funsies.” That dangerous grin is back, the one that slides Holtzy’s face into six different shades of death trap and Patty’s still not sure she’s going to survive this friendship, but hey, what the hell. At least she’s got a photon shredder, whatever the fuck that is.

Beside her, Holtzy stretches those noodle arms out over her head, yawn tugging at her lips and sending those glasses sliding back down her nose, and Patty knows what’s up. “I think with all you’ve done, baby, you should get some sleep.”

“Sleep is for the weak, Pats. Present company excluded.”

And it’s moments like these that Patty thinks, maybe this whole thing—this whole weird-ass, stomach-clenching, convoluted _thing_ with Holtzmann, is just, her own new normal, and she’s still getting used to it. Like maybe this is how every woman feels around the space-eyed engineer, because Holtzy’s her own kind of solar-system, gravity ’n all, and it’s easier than breathing to get caught up in her orbit. Patty’s always been guilty of overthinking—which she’ll credit to a creative and agile mind, thank you _very_ much—and this time’s no different, clearly. 

So instead Patty just rises from the bare mattress, throwing Holtzy a raised eyebrow over her shoulder as she heads for the open door, trying to keep her grin at bay. “Well you made the bed, now lie in it.”

Holtzy’s laughter follows her all the way down the stairs.

 

***

 

It’s half past three on a Thursday, and Patty’s been up to her eyes in city records for too many hours, so she’s grateful for the reprieve of Abby popping her head down from the third floor, all very white-suburban-mother, and bellowing “WHO WANTS SANDWICHES?!”

The kitchenette off the second level is great for another coffeepot, Abby’s treasured mini-fridge, and pantry cabinets stuffed full of ill-advised snacks, but it’s the full(er) kitchen upstairs where _meals_ are made, and Patty’s come to appreciate that fact almost as much as having a place to crash without riding back to Bed-Stuy. Without it, they’d likely be living off Holtzmann’s endless bags of sour candy and Erin’s gluten-free pretzels, and that shit is Just. Not. Happening, because you gotta draw the line somewhere, and for Patty, that line is _Xtreme Sour!_ gummy worms and pot noodles. Respect your body, fam.

Their kitchen is old and wide and tiled in black and white, an open plan shared with a living room that functioned as common area back when firefighters actually occupied the space; Patty’s in love. With a full-size refrigerator, miles of counter space heretofore unseen in Manhattan, and an oven-stove combo built to feed a legion of hungry men, anyone south of Central Park West would be stewing in jealousy.

And so with stomach growling Patty slaps her laptop shut and makes the journey upstairs, greeted at the top of the steps by a plethora of cold cuts spread across the counter, and Abby grinning as she cheerfully empties half a squeeze bottle of mustard onto what looks like an overloaded turkey on rye. “Hey Patty, I made you a plate! Erin, show her the chips and pickles—”

“They’re just, right here…” Erin indicates the artfully arranged tray of kosher pickles and three assorted bags of potato thins surrounding her own plate, taking another bite of her ham and swiss and aiming Patty a commiserating shrug, one that says _Abby’s on a roll, again_.

“Aw thanks Abby, this looks great.” Patty accepts the sandwich, beaming at the roast beef piled high on her plate as she slides into an empty chair, knee knocking into the wobbly table and that’s another thing to add to their wish-list for Jennifer Lynch: a new damn table with four evenly-spaced legs, what a novelty. Ikea’s making a killing at the mayor’s office thanks to the ghostbusters department; the swedes should be grateful. “Sorry, Erin.”

The hoodie-clad physicist shakes her head, still nibbling unobtrusively away at her sandwich and Patty reaches for a handful of kettle chips, taking a better look at her friend, who always seems to shrink away from any attention unless it’s praise, curling in on herself and that shouldn’t be her gut reaction, it ain’t right. “Hey honey, you get a haircut? Looks real cute; that color’s dope. Nice with your skin tone, too.”

"Oh, just a trim, and some highlights—”

Of course Abby zeroes in on the conversation, pointing at her longtime friend with a vindicated nose-wrinkle. “See? _Thank you_ Patty, that’s what I told her, and she wouldn’t believe me. It’s practically the same as your old hair—”

“I _did_ believe you! I’m just getting used to it still, that’s all.” Erin tugs at her shoulder-length hair, now a much more palatable shade of auburn since Abby finally got tired of her fussing over it after the Garfield Incident, and sent her up the street to the nearest Arrojo studio to get it fixed—a decision Patty fully endorsed, because even a student stylist could do a better job than shitty box dye in the bathroom sink. And now that Erin’s head looks a little closer to normal, maybe she’ll stop flinching every time she catches sight of herself in a reflective surface. Here’s hoping.

“Thank you—and your braids look, um, really nice.”

And Patty knows they do but hearing it sure doesn’t hurt, so she beams bright, pats at the new purple and golden-yellow plaits woven through her usual updo. “Thanks honey, I been feelin’ the sunshine lately.” And she truly has—paperwork and record-slogging aside, hanging out in this drafty old firehouse, with three white-girl scientists in varying flavors of crazy, busting ghosts and actually getting to live and _breathe_ the history of the greatest city on Earth—this is the best damn time she’s had in her life, and Patty hopes it never ends.

It’s a few minutes of tucking into her roast beef and provolone, and silently thanking God, Jesus and also Abby for the opportunity to experience the entirety of it in her face, because _damn_ , homegirl makes a mean sandwich. And turns out she’d been so deep in that city database, Patty’d ignored the growl in her gut until it was ready to swallow her whole—but here, with only crumbs and the stemmy end of a pickle left on her plate, she feels like a brand new woman, and alert enough to realise that there’s a decided absence at their little lunch soiree. Which she aims to do something about, stat.

“Hey, anyone seen Holtzy? She wasn’t in the lab.”

“I haven’t seen her since this morning—but here, when you find her, I made her a sandwich.” Of course she did, and Abby’s already unloading the mustard-covered mess from earlier and what looks like a half stack of Pringles onto a paper plate, passing it off to Patty sans discussion, but she ain’t complaining. Holtzy shouldn’t be skipping meals, and she’s probably off somewhere buried up to those cute little ears in something gross and acidic, because that’s what Holtzmann does. At least this way, Patty reasons, she can do it with a full belly.

“Here, you can bring this to Kevin while you’re at it—he’s downstairs, photocopying receipts for the mayor’s office.” Abby hands off another plate, this one piled high with at least four bologna sandwiches, a big fat toothpick stabbed through the center on top, though she whisks that away as soon as Patty’s got a good grip on the dish. “I’ll take that, disaster waiting to happen.”

Erin piques at the mention of their erstwhile secretary, but says nothing and Patty silently congratulates the woman with a sweet smile because hey, that’s progress. Baby steps and all that.

When she makes it down Kev’s at the foot of the stairs, copier angrily spitting out scans while he preens into the glass door of the old firehose case, flexing those big rippling biceps and ruffling a hand through his hair like a damn cockatiel. It’s tragic, all that brawn mixed up with a sad dearth of brains, and Patty’s thought more than once about giving him a good zap with a proton gun. Honestly, it might fix him.

“Hey Sporty Spice, you seen Holtzy?”

The receptionist blinks at her from behind his lensless glasses, and then at the twin plates of Abby’s labors in her hands, and Patty sighs, passing off the Kevin-designated sandwich tower as he finally seems to remember. “Uh, I think the car ate her.”

“ _What?”_ The question is reflex, because the odds of getting a solid answer out of their dopey muscled Australian shepherd are slim to none, and Patty whirls a look to where their second Ecto station wagon is parked in the center of the room, an eighties standard warbling out from underneath the chassis.

“I tried to give her a hand, but she told me to save myself,” the receptionist pipes up as Patty steps away towards the Cadillac, probably thinking he’s being helpful before chomping into his sandwich. Classic Kevin.

“Holtzy? Baby, where you at—” And then she spots the pair of coverall-clad thighs twitching out from beneath the Ecto, Freddie Mercury crooning over fat-bottomed girls from Abby’s old boombox on the floor, stereo turned towards the underside of the car and surrounded by a smattering of tools, wrenches and flecks of oil all over the concrete. Adjusting the plate in her hand she stoops, reaches for the volume before tapping one bouncing leg to alert their engineer to lunch.

“Sweetie, brought you a sandwich—” And then she forgets how to speak at all, because Holtzmann rolls out from beneath the car and Patty almost chokes.

There's a smudge of engine grease down Holtzy's cheek, blonde curls falling over her goggles and her filthy coverall sleeves knotted round her waist like some kind of muscle car calendar’s wet dream. She’s laid on a mechanic’s board with her bare feet braced on the floor, and it’s all this perfect storm of painfully hot and _she’s good with her hands_ and Patty drinks her in, knocks her back like a shot of jack with a chaser of _oh-fuck-me_.

Her tank top is frayed thin, maybe it started out white but it's stained to hell now, and Patty's not _looking_ but if she was she'd take a longer peek because she'd swear that's the outline of a _nipple bar_ and Jesus, this is absolutely not what she came down here looking for and it's all she can think about now; Holtzy and her perky little pierced tits and she's staring again, like _goddamn_.

God _damn_.

Patty needs a medic, or a good stiff drink, or maybe for the universe to _cut her a fucking break_ because she’s trying so very hard not to be into Holtzmann and her sweat-messy hair and this uncomfortably hot grease-monkey thing, except that bridge is two months crossed and with the way things are heading now, she’s sailing right into a flawlessly constructed hurricane of _Patty, you’ll regret this eventually_ and _don’t care, still would_. In a leaking dingy. No life vest in sight.

And then Holtzmann pushes up those trademark tinted goggles to her smeared forehead, aims Patty a lazy wink that liquifies her insides faster than a ghost chipper, and drawls with a juicy smirk, all the while still laid flat on her back and nudging one little pink toe against the tile. “Always finding me in compromisin' positions, Pats.”

 _Pretty sure I’ve seen a porno that started exactly like this_ , is all Patty can think. Instead, she wordlessly holds out the plate of sandwiches like an offering to whatever deity is gleefully toying with her entire life, before finally finding her voice. “Lunch?”

The engineer’s eyes alight like Patty’s just offered her the moon, or a case of stolen plutonium maybe, and Holtzy’s scrabbling out from beneath the car and to her feet in record time, reaching for her plate and pushing up on tiptoe to smash a very wet, _very_ sloppy kiss to Patty’s jaw that she is _so_ not ready for. “Patricia, you are _exquisite_.”

And it’s stupid that the first thought in her mind is _hey, only my mama calls me that_ because Holtzy just _kissed her face_ and honestly it was messy and not at all romantic, but Patty doesn’t even get a chance to think past that because Kevin’s suddenly at the hood of the car with his sandwich, perked up like a big dumb sunflower as he beams at them. “Oh! You saved her.”

There’s a skinny bare arm snaking around Patty’s waist, squeezing tight as Holtzy grins out, “She _always_ saves me,” and _oh_ _baby_ , _don’t do that;_ it’s damn unfair, because Patty’s heart just went from zero to sixty in the space of four words, and there’s no way that’s healthy on any level. That’s some heart-attack level shit right there.

(“ _We don’t need another Cadillac, babe. It’s on the mayor’s tab, we should get somethin’ reliable. And preferably newer_.” Patty had been leant warily over her laptop as Holtzy pounded into the keyboard, scouring Craigslist for another hearse-lookalike with more toothy determination than a dachshund in a shoe rack.

“ _Patty. Angel. It’s our trademark now. We gotta._ ” An argument that wouldn’t hold up in court but must have worked on Abby, because somehow in the space of three hours the Ghostbusters were on a curb in Staten Island, looking at a not-so-gently-used, 1985 Cadillac Fleetwood Station Wagon. “ _Nothing a little TLC won’t fix,_ ” Holtzy had crowed, surveying the cracked headlight and limp side mirror with complete and utter delight.)

A fixer-upper, alright. Patty’s goddamn heart-rate is starting to feel like a fixer-upper around Holtzmann, who’s already slinking off with another wink and a faceful of turkey on rye, extra mustard. Not to mention that killer rack, and _goddamn it._

This shit’s gettin’ _real_ old.


	4. knee deep in the hoopla

If anyone had told Patty Tolan a year ago that she’d _welcome_ an on-call job that gets her out of bed before the dawn chorus, she’d have said _miss me with that shit_ and rolled over, tugging a pillow over her head for good measure—but apparently this is her life now, and she thinks she’s adapting pretty well, because she’s okay with it. More than okay, because busting an itty bitty spectre out of an East Village art studio before the sun’s even up gives a better adrenaline burst than a five-shot espresso, and Patty’s wide awake as she trots down the sidewalk with Holtzy by her hip, shaking her head even as the pint-sized engineer gestures wildly beside her. 

“And _then_ after another forty-two attempts, it finally stabilised. With only _mild_ structural damage to the adjoining two blocks. Me and Detective Jeffords grew to know each other pretty well that summer.”

Patty knows a sugar-coated smirk when she sees one, slanting a look downwards as she clarifies. “You mean you kept blowing up a building in his precinct and he had to keep dealin’ with you.”

Holtzy’s eyes dance behind her tinted glasses, turning her a smug grin. “Yeah.”

Those blonde curls are bobbing atop her head with every bouncing step, like a little fluff of cloud and Patty smiles at the thought, because if anyone would have her own atmosphere, it’d be Holtzmann—and the woman nudges into Patty’s side on another stride, touching her easily, those flitting hands leaving a trail of sparks under her fingers and she doesn’t even _know_ , but Patty wants to tell her. She’s wanted to for days, but after they’d gotten back this morning post-bust and thrown their packs on the wall, Holtzy’d draped herself over the hood of the Ecto like an overwrought starlet and groaned that she was going to expire, she was _soooo hungry_ and wouldn’t _anyone_ have pity and take her to breakfast, and, well. Patty’s a sucker for swooning maidens, apparently. God help her.

Because between the flirting, the countless hours spent in the same room swapping stories across the second floor and laughing over dumb shit, and the way those eyes light up sans goggles whenever Patty mentions a new food joint she wants to try, or a museum she’s planning to check out—between all that, she’s nursing an asteroid-sized crush because it’s just _easy_. It’s easy and weird and _natural_ just kicking it with Holtzy, and she wants to keep doing it. Forever, maybe. And logic dictates that if such is the case, she shouldn’t say a damn thing: just keep doing, because telling Holtzmann she enjoys taking her out and paying for her cheesesteaks and that she _also_ wants to maybe stick her tongue down that warbling throat could potentially ruin this great thing they got going, and Patty’s not about that. But on the other hand, if the fallout is slightly less atomic than she’s thinking (hoping) it might be, maybe Patty could have breakfast _and_ _Holtzy’s_ tongue down her throat, and that. That sounds worth it.

Being the secure grown woman that Patty Tolan is, she says none of this and instead turns the subject to their destination, already knowing the answer but asking anyway, for the hell of it. “You got money? You can't keep moochin' off the rest of us just cos you get snacky."

"No _oope_.” Holtzmann pops the _p_ and slides her that _look_ , chin tucked and gaze all sly up through her lashes, like this is a game and Holtzy’s just smashed it out of the park first inning, World Series style. Smug-ass bitch.

“But we just passed an ATM that looks like a cinch to hotwire. Bet I could have it open in eleven seconds. Ten if I hustle." She draws out the first number, rolling her tongue over the _L_ like it's delicious, and Patty's long since stopped taking her seriously, mostly, but there's that gleam behind those round frames that edges on alarming at best.

“Sweetie, I doubt the mayor would pardon you for bank robbin’ when he already pays your rent.”

Except she’s already cracking her knuckles because of course she is, grin scrawling all over her face. “Ehh, semantics. You can count me down, Pattycakes. I go over time, breakfast is on me." 

“You wouldn't pay for breakfast even if you robbed the treasury, babe.”

 

***

 

They wait in line, Holtzmann poking curiously at the fresh wrapped sandwiches in the case, and Patty tilts her head toward it, feels one of the braids in her updo slide loose. "If you want suggestions, I'd kill a man for their croissants.” 

Holtzy raises delighted brows but says nothing, taking an exaggerated stomp to the side to allow one of the red-capped baristas room to restock the shelf with little plastic trays of breakfast fruit and yoghurt pots, jamming her hands in her coverall pockets with an interested pout at the proceedings.

Tucking the escaped braid back from the twist she'd hastily thrown together somewhere in the vicinity of 3 AM, when her phone was vibrating off the nightstand with Abby's call, Patty pats her look into place and slants a glance to her fellow 'buster.

"Baby, d'you know what you want?"

The engineer blinks at her behind those yellow frames, breaking into a slow smile that starts with her eyes and ends in a wolfish grin that's got blinking ACME _Danger!_ signs written all over it, Wile E. Coyote in coveralls. "Sure do."

 

***

 

They snag a seat by the window, peachy-pink light spilling onto the sidewalks as rush hour crams everyone past their booth, a reverse fishbowl.

Patty teases a sip of her latte, still too hot to drink and steaming through the hole in the flimsy plastic lid, eagle eye on Holtzmann who's busily dumping her sixth packet of raw sugar into the cup of English Breakfast and stirring wildly like she's churning butter. "Girl, you gonna give yourself diabetes."

True to form, Holtzy ignores the concern and abandons her tea, pulling apart her egg and cheddar with a gleaming smirk and shoving little bits past her lips, smearing the pink she must have put on before Abby dragged her out of the firehouse. Patty's not the only one who has her morning ritual then, no matter how early their mornings happen to start--Holtzy’s curls are askew, but she clearly pinned them up before the bust.

Patty can only watch the massacre of a breakfast croissant for so long before she tries her latte again, a mouthful of warm foam through the lid that she nearly chokes on when Holtzmann speaks.

“You know, I killed a man with a cheese platter once. Right to the jugular. Never saw it coming.”

Sometimes Patty thinks that hanging with Holtzy is like playing an ass-backward game of two truths and a lie, because most of the cheerfully jarring shit that rambles out of that pretty little mouth can’t _possibly_ be for real, and this time she just sticks the engineer with a particularly skeptical eyebrow, trying to keep the grin off her face because for all the crazy, Patty loves this. She loves the weird back-and-forth between them, the way Holtzmann’s face slides from innocent to trouble and back again; it keeps things interesting, reminds her to play. Although she’ll be _damned_ if she’s going to say so, Patty’s no fool and her baby needs the encouragement like a box of dynamite, which is not at all.

Holtzy pops another torn-up bite of breakfast into her mouth, sighing wistfully. “I Camembert it like it was yesterday.”

Hell, Patty knows where this is going and rolls her eyes, it’s like trying to hold back the tide.

“I turned into a real Muenster, but E _dam_ , it was a Gouda shot.”

Three in a row, that’s pretty damn quick and Patty just laughs, downing another sip of her latte and smoothing out the wrinkled cardboard sleeve when she sets it down, shaking her head. “Holtzy, you are somethin’ else.”

Picking at her sandwich again, the engineer grins like a house on fire, venturing after a moment of thought. “I saw that Man’s-che-go flashing before his eyes.”

“Alright, you’re reachin’ now.”

“They wanted to send me to _Emmental_ institute.”

Patty snorts, because two can play this game and you better know that Holtzmann’s not the only one around here quick on the draw, reaching across the table to poke her arm. “So you think you’re the big cheese, don’tcha?”

“You’d better Brie-lieve it.”

The laugh comes too easy, almost, and Patty’s shaking her head as she chomps on the remains of her sandwich and takes a bigger drink of her latte, building up her courage because she’s a _goddamn adult_ , this shouldn’t be so fucking hard to just _say_ how she feels—she’s direct as hell in every other circumstance so it makes no kind of sense that now she’s getting cold feet, sat here watching Holtzy picking pastry crumbs from her uniform and licking them off a finger. This has been chasing her for months, this _hunger_ , this longing for adventure and that brilliant, sparking curiosity to _know_ , to know and understand every weird insignificant little detail of what makes up Jillian Holtzmann, and it’s taken long enough to translate that into… well, whatever this is. More than a crush, less than a romance. Somewhere to the left of throbbing sexual tension, and mixed up with butterflies in her rib cage like she’s a teenager again, asking DeAndre Thomas to the spring fling because he never fucking asked her, the weak-ass baby. Holtzy’s got more game by a goddamn mile.

( _“Is it safe?”_ Officially her second day as part of the club, following the bounce of the team’s engineer and her wild nest of curls and Patty’s still fascinated, still not really sure what the Conductors of Meta-something is about except that it’s _definitely_ weirder than a book club. Still preoccupied with that tight little ass strutting its way over to the fish tank in striped pants, tinted goggles, and that god-awful silk robe hanging loose off her shoulders; she looks like a fashion disaster checklist and Patty _still would_.

“ _Oh, to be clear: nothing in this laboratory is safe.”_ Holtzmann smirking, like she’s got a degree in danger framed on the grimy wall beside the outdated occupancy sign, spinning about on a booted heel and pointing her where to stand with a flourish. Patty shuffling into place, holding out uncertain arms with a cocked eyebrow while the woman circles her with a tape measure, feeling faintly like cornered prey as she mumbles _oh, great_ and let Holtzy pose her as she pleases, already loose under the touch of those deft hands, quick fingers and rough palms.

The measuring business goes on for a good ten minutes, and Patty’s not exactly _complaining_ but Holtzmann’s in her own little world, humming under her breath as she jots notes on her arm with a Sharpie and this seems a helluva lot of messing around for what’s basically a glorified bookbag full of lasers, finally biting her lip. _“Isn’t this just like a backpack? Don’t think that needs tailorin’, baby._ ”

“ _Yeah, it is._ ” And Holtzmann’s straightening up from where she’s been crouched by Patty’s feet and what the fuck does _that_ have to do with fitting for a backpack, Patty would _very much_ like to know, because she’s been trying not to think about what else this woman could be doing for her on her knees—but then Holtzy smiles, sharp and flashing bright and okay, so. Maybe she’ll think about it.

 _“And yeah, it_ does _._ ” There’s a shuffling sound as she orbits Patty one last time, and then Holtzmann’s landing a hard _smack_ on her ass with a whoop of a whistle, crowing “ _All done!_ ” as she swaggers back the way they came, and _fuck_.)

And she _wants_ to tell Holtzy, is the worst part—Patty needs to know if this is ever gonna be anything more than a wink and a smirk and a slap on the ass, because she’s grown and it’s stupid as hell to waste time pining over something that was never even on the menu to begin with. Like, Holtzmann’s clearly into women, exclusively, and that’s great, that’s fantastic, that’s real helpful, except does her definition of who she’s into include Patty Tolan and if so, can she fill out the application paperwork, stat. If not, that’s cool too, Patty’s cool with it. So if next week she ends up hitting the nearest lesbian bar for a pint-sized blonde with a grin like fireworks, to get this—whatever _this_ is, out of her system—it won’t be Holtzy either, but a girl can dream.

She’s stewing in it, in trying to figure how to _talk_ to Holtzy when all they ever _do_ is talk, she takes a breath but her companion beats her to it, starts instead. “Patty.”

And Patty’s still stuck in her head, still expecting another pun about dairy, so she hums a noise to say she’s listening and glances up, noticing absently that Holtzmann’s took her glasses off, Patty ready for everything except what actually happens.

“…you ever thought on what would have happened, if you weren’t there to save me from that fall?”

Patty looks back to her with wide eyes, and Holtzy’s fiddling with a crust of her sandwich, glancing up for a fleeting moment and it’s the most somber Patty’s ever seen her, no joke behind those familiar blue eyes and she’s watching her, biting on her lip for a long shocked minute before she’s left it too long, _has_ to respond.

“Uh baby, that… ain’t really something I ever wanted to think about.” _Because it would mean that you weren’t here and we probably would have all died, we wouldn’t be here and I don’t think I can handle that, because._ Because Holtzy’s a constant now, and their lives are so different but Patty’s is so much _better_ than it was, and imagining a life without all of this, but especially _her_ —Patty can’t.

Holtzy’s looking back down at the pastry she’s demolishing, quiet. “I think about it, sometimes.”

Alright, well _this_ is news to Patty and she watches the woman for a long time, trying to deal with this and the way Holtzmann’s shoulders are hunched inward and she’s being _serious_ , so Patty tries not to startle her off. “You wanna… talk about it?”

Holtzy just shrugs, curling up her bottom lip as she toys with the tabletop and looking like she doesn’t really want to say yes, but, _yes_. “I can’t with Abby, don’t want to hurt her feelings.”

And wow, okay. That’s unexpected. Because it’s not that Holtzmann’s cruel—the opposite in fact, Patty knows she’s been leaving crumbs on the windowsill for hungry pigeons for _weeks_ —but she seems to be operating under a different cloud of thought than anyone Patty’s ever met. She bounces back faster from feelings because there’s other, far more fascinating things in the world, like power tools and radiation, and slurpees from the corner bodega. Holtzy’s like a roman candle, sputtering and smoldering bright and hot, on fire with invention and this desperate, sparking _need_ to create, to improve, before she burns out and scatters across the sky. And as far as Patty can figure emotions are a minor footnote in the book of Holtzmann, when there’s so much else that begs her focus.

But then again the entire experience was traumatizing enough for all of them without piling on _more_ guilt, and onto Abby at that. Abby, who had stumbled back from possession to a still-missing Erin and a cracked proton pack, and a city in need of saving. And even after all was said and done, there’s no real graceful way to bring that up without exhuming some pretty ugly memories, and as an unyielding friend and longtime lab partner, Holtzmann had recognised that. Patty may not understand everything that lives in Holtzy’s head, but she doesn’t need to follow it point by point to know it’s important.

“I get that.” And she does, biting her lip with a sudden thought. “Do you feel different around her? After… you know.”

“No. Maybe. I don’t know.” Holtzy looks up with a frown pulling those blonde brows together, like she’s displeased with her own answer and give a tiny shrug, but sure. “I still trust her.”

“I know, baby.” Holtzmann trusts Abby, that much is obvious; they’re best friends. But that kind of trauma’s gotta leave a mark somewhere, and Patty was always afraid to bring it up before but now she’s kinda wishing she had anyway, maybe they could have helped each other. She’s certainly spent more than a few nights tossing and turning, wondering if that could happen again. If it could be her next time. And since they’re unearthing this mess already, Patty bites at her lip, asking something she’s wondered for awhile, but never found the right time to say, even in all the quiet moments from her reading couch, twisted round on the sofa watching Holtzy work. “How can you work in your lab, after that? It’s… I mean, that’s a pretty big window.”

The engineer shrugs, limply poking at her food and forcing a smile that looks pained. “Can’t be scared of windows forever. Plus, it’s good light to work in.”

Okay that’s fair, and Patty’s glad she’s able to use the space, can’t imagine her working anywhere else—between the tinkering, the stray sparks and dubious stains that show up on the floor, Holtzmann’s constant futzing about with her inventions has become a comfort, an ambient noise and presence that eases her into reading faster now, soothes her into a focus that shouldn’t be possible, when so many other things distract or deter.

“I mean… you’d have figured out how to kick that thing outta Abby, somehow. Somethin’ science-y, like a ghost grenade, or what’s that thing you put in my chipper? A photon shredder, one of those.” Patty sinks all her cheery hope and encouragement into the suggestion, hoping to bring the light out in Holtzy’s eyes again, and praising her inventions is usually the way to go, except.

Except that doesn’t seem to be it at all, because Holtzy’s frown only grows, sharp chin tipping downward and Patty gets the distinct feeling she thinks Patty’s _not listening_ —and so she abandons all the _stuff_ clouding her mind and instead takes a deep breath, and hopes this doesn’t go tits-up, that it’s okay. Abandoning her drink she’s reaching out and very gently, very slowly touches Holtzy’s hand, the one closest to her that she’s gone back to shredding crusts with, and when her friend doesn’t flinch Patty curls her fingers around those shorter callused ones, and looks into Holtzmann’s big blue eyes, meaning every word.

“Sweetie, I dunno what would have happened. I don’t like to think about it, because if I’m gonna be real with you it scares the everlovin’ shit outta me.” She rubs a thumb over Holtzy’s knuckles, trying to get this right, feeling so _earnest_ like she needs to convey this to her, and words aren’t enough. “But I do know that I’m glad I was there. And if something like that happens again, I know I’ll be there, _again_. And I will do _whatever_ I gotta do, to keep you safe. Whether that’s bitch-slappin’ another ghost, or whoever.”

And she’s thinking that was maybe coherent enough—it felt like it—but Holtzy’s staring, expression blank like Patty’s grown three heads and maybe she should try again, except without warning the engineer’s shoving up from her seat, stumbling to her feet and walking stiffly around the booth to where Patty’s sat, and they spend half a second blinking at each other before Holtzmann’s _falling into her_ , arms wide and clutching tight in a sudden desperate squeeze. It’s like a bear hug on steroids and there’s a weird, harsh inhale against Patty’s neck, her own eyes wide as she pats the woman on the back, and there’s a tight mutter into her throat, Holtzy’s cold nose in her jugular.

“ _Knew I shoulda talked to you._ ”

 _Oh. Okay._ Patty’s arms curl around her tense frame, Holtzy’s bony shoulder’s sort of stabbing her in the chin but she’s taking it in stride, ignores the crowded coffeeshop and busy street on the other side of the glass to rub a gentle hand up her back, murmurs _it’s okay baby, you’re okay_ , because for all the time Holtzmann spends cheerfully lying about everything, this feels like a truth. So Patty just holds her tight, lets her melt into the hug and she’s warm all over with this woman in her arms; she’s soaking up the sun of her baby’s bright hair and promises, heart thudding. “You can talk to me anytime you want. Want you to.”

Holtzy just nods, quick jerky movements into Patty’s shoulder without actually releasing her, clearing her throat to mask a loud sniffle before she finally pulls back, long enough to aim a lopsided smile before thumping into the seat nearly in her lap, and Patty’s scooting a few inches over so they’ll fit more comfortably. Holtzy’s tugging her sandwich over, starting to pick at it again like nothing happened, but trading her a huge grin in return for the space, and maybe for the hug too. “You’re the best, Pats.”

And that was a real thing, like that night in the bar when Holtzy was half a beer in and she suddenly stood up and declared her love for them and this sweet weird tangle of a family they’ve become, and that just reinforces the notion to Patty that trying to get in on this tiny engineer’s heart is so inappropriate right now, because instead Holtzy just. Needs a friend. So she smiles and gives her girl a hip check under the table, and pokes a finger at the mess that was Holtzmann’s sandwich with a deadly-serious expression, because this is how they do. “Yo, you straight up murdered that thing. A ghostly croissant is gonna haunt your dreams tonight.”

“He was a tyrant. I’ve made the world a _butter_ place.”

 

***

 

It’s easy to get lost in the quiet, Patty thinks, when you got something worthwhile fuelling your work, and if combing through the last fifteen decades of the city’s most morbid obituaries ends up cracking the code on this ley lines theory, then every moment will have been worth it. Even if her eyes are ready to melt out of her head à la that dude at the end of _Raiders of the Lost Ark_ , only with more actual historical content and fewer nazis. And the second floor _is_ quiet but it’s actually kind of weird, like something’s missing without the constant scent of danger and tell-tale sounds of mad scientist tinkering from Holtzy’s lab.

Right-click, save; for now she’s been shoving anything worthwhile into a catch-all desktop folder but Patty’s got a _system_ , she’s got a cute little terabyte of keyring flash drive shaped like a swiss army knife (and Holtzmann laughed when she saw that, oh did she _laugh_ ) and usually she’s got her shit together, but when they made it back from breakfast this morning she’d hopped right on her research and tossed her keys… somewhere. Somewhere that isn’t the dish on her coffee table where they usually go, and if Patty’s going to buckle down and get this research laid out, that means finding that drive and oh damn, it’s probably in her coveralls.

Downstairs is empty too but that’s no surprise, the science crowd took off shopping earlier with Abby calling something about groceries as they trooped past her couch, and Patty was smack-dab in the middle of an 1895 _Brooklyn Daily_ column about a runaway throat-slashing bicyclist, so she’d just waved without looking up and spent the next ten minutes shaking her head because people in this city have always been bugfuck nuts, and she’s got the receipts to back it up.

Patty’s stopped carrying a purse these days, seems to be no point when they’re out on a bust and her uniform pockets are big enough for a small galaxy anyway. She’s skimming over her memory of walking in earlier, hanging up her coveralls on the hook inside her locker so she can find them later, a basic safety measure at this point because Kevin keeps taking home stray jumpsuits thinking they’re his, and Abby’s given up trying to stop him.

So she’s heading over to her locker, tugging open the door with a little extra muscle behind it because it’s developed a weird catch and she’s gotta pull hard to pop it sometimes, except it slides open this time like butter, and Patty’s brows shoot up, pleasantly surprised. “Okay, maybe you’re gonna start cooperatin’ now, that’s real nice of you, thanks.” Except that’s when something behind her hung-up coveralls makes them _twitch_ , and Patty drops her half-smile in favor of an eyes-bugging, heart-in-throat _oh hell no_ , because it’s either a ghost or a rat and with all things considered Patty might give the ghost an edge, hand shaking as she reaches out to snatch her uniform away, talking tough because otherwise _she’s_ going to run away.

“Oh you _better_ not be a ghost, you’ve come to the wrong place, motherfu—”

And then she’s jerking aside the jumpsuit and hollering at the top of her lungs because _it’s bigger than a rat_ and it’s got eyes _big yellow gleaming eyes_ and _fucking shit_ it’s _Holtzmann_ who is also screaming, and Patty’s screaming and they’re both stood there _screaming_ except then Holtzy’s bounding forward out of the locker, sticking a finger in front of Patty’s lips to silence her and she shoves the hand away, incensed.

“ _Jesus, Holtzmann_ —what the _hell_ are you doing hidin’ in here, I just about had a heart attack!”

The engineer is pressing a finger in front of her own lips like an example, since Patty doesn’t seem to be getting it except Patty does, she’s just _pissed_. “ _Shhhhhhhh—_ ”

“Girl I _know_ you did not just _shush_ me—”

“I’m _hiding—_ ”

“Yeah I can see that, and so can my heart rate, thanks to your creepy lil’ ass _hiding in my locker_ —”

Holtzy puffs a loud sigh and waves messy hands, as if it’s the most obvious fact in the universe and Patty’s being purposely obtuse, which she is _not_ by the way. “No, I’m hiding from Kevin. Have you seen him?”

And she hasn’t, but Patty reins in her ire and sweeps a glance around the empty first floor anyway, and the only sound is the constant hum of the containment unit in the back, so she shakes her head.

“Oh. Well, let me know when you do.” And without explanation, the engineer tweaks her a grin and steps back into Patty’s locker, pulling the door shut with a quiet snap. Patty’s stood there whirling a glance around, wishing there was someone else here to explain what just happened because the jury’s still out, and so are her keys. She’s stalking forward, tugging the locker back open with an exasperated _look_ that nearly falls off her face because Holtzy’s lounging devil-may-care against the inside wall like she’s been expected, wearing a shit-eating smirk three sizes too big.

“Uh-uh, w _hy the hell_ are you hiding? Thought you were out shoppin’ with the girls.” Patty’s an expert at multitasking, so she’s already reaching around and going through her coverall pockets, grabbing the side of her uniform and shaking it to hear a jingle and _bingo_ , right thigh pocket—she’s reaching around to dig out the set, ring of keys stabbing into her palm because she’s too busy furrowing her brows at Holtzmann to watch what _she’s_ doing, well done Tolan.

“Nah. Wagered Kevin a hundred hot pockets that I’m the better H&S player.”

“Shit. _That’s_ what this is about?” The eyeroll is second nature by this point, and Patty’s wrinkling her nose even as she steps back, shutting the door as she mutters. “Y’all couldn’t have gambled somethin’ slightly _less_ disgusting, not even like, pizza or sub sandwiches…”

And she’s not expecting an answer exactly, but there’s a bit of a pause before Holtzy’s muffled voice drifts through the wooden door. “ _Get in here and we’ll discuss it further_.”

And that’s tempting, maybe, but Patty’s got bigger questions and she’s not about to be deterred by the fleeting possibility of being shoved into a locker with Holtzmann, even if that sounds like a _wild_ seven minutes in heaven. Especially when heaven is a cubbyhole she can’t fit into, which is probably a sign from above. “Hey, wait a minute. Why’re you using _my_ locker?”

Even longer pause, slightly quieter. “ _Safe in here_.” And then, with a rustle and a thump, like she’s sat down in the back of the locker and propped her feet on the inside wall, sounding smug in her reasoning. “And he’ll never suspect me in yours.”

And there’s so much Patty’d like to say after mentally dissecting that response, because Holtzy feels safe in _her_ locker and that’s wow, huh. That’s something to deal with later, maybe, when her brain isn’t stuck on repeat of the engineer’s compact little frame stuffed into the cupboard smothering her face in Patty’s jumpsuit feeling _safe_ , feeling protected in her space—and okay, so maybe she’ll deal with that now, when she goes back upstairs, in the privacy of an empty bedroom, because Abby and Erin are still out shopping, and Patty’s alone and a woman has _needs_ , even if that’s a totally inappropriate response to everything. All of this… whatever.

So instead she just shrugs and concedes, “Can’t argue with that logic, I guess,” and it’s like on cue that Kevin stumbles in, looking around like he’s lost before finally registering that he’s not alone, and Patty can’t help it; she slides a tiny smug grin aimed at the row of lockers before stepping away, towards the stairs as she waves, dragging out her greeting _just_ enough to make Holtzy sweat.

“Oh _heeey_ , Kev… You hide-and seekin’?” The big lunk just nods, scanning the room like he’s planning battle and scratching his chin, and Patty smirks as she goes up the steps, adding helpfully. “Don’t bother checking the lockers, I already did.”

“Uh thanks, Patty.” Kevin heeds the warning and paces the space around the Ecto instead, frown plastered all over that handsome mug as he peers under the car, looking mildly concerned. “She’s so small, I think I lost her.”

And Patty does laugh then, shaking her head from the first flight of steps and knowing their unseen engineer can hear every word. “Who, Holtzy?” And she grins, twirling her keys with a lazy finger as she mounts the next. “Girl’s a bad penny, she’ll turn up. She _owes_ me one.”

 

***

 

Since the big event in Times Square last month they’ve only had little busts here and there, the spectral equivalent of getting your elderly neighbor’s cat out of a tree, really. So when they get the call about midtown, the Ghostbusters are good and ready to kick a few undead entities in the teeth. Patty’s certainly not complaining, diving into her building records and scouring through every complaint listed on the block, while Abby negotiates with Jennifer Lynch over the phone, because apparently it is imperative that this particular situation be handled _delicately,_ direct orders from the mayor himself. They tend to say that about everything though, so she’s not overly concerned, although the phone call is new. Usually it’s just an exasperated-sounding text message with an advisory to log the bust and _try not to blow anything up_ , and Patty’s thinking about embroidering a pillow with that for her reading nook, add a touch of irony to the place.

Of course that doesn’t stop Holtzmann from striding past her reading couch and towards the stairs, her lanky arms filled with flashing grenades and a smile full of knives: Patty glances up from her laptop with a subdued interest that blossoms combustibly into a double-take at the sight of their engineer, shuffling the two-step around the railing with a wild grin and explosives lofted over her head.

“Baby, I hope you’re not taking _all_ of those.”

That frizzy blonde head has vanished down the steps, but the question floats back up to Patty on a sunny note of disaster. “And _why_ _not_? The more the merrier!”

And that about sums up their prep, although Patty does print off a hefty stack of notes for reference, with big plans to review them on the way _just in case_. Which she never _quite_ gets around to doing, because the most recent mixtape Abby made for their next Big Bust starts off with Starship, and they’re peeling down 42nd Street with sirens wailing, windows open and chanting _we built this city, we built this city on roo-ock and ro-oollll_ as Holtzmann hangs one arm out the window, tapping the beat into her door while Erin panics over her one-handed grip on the wheel. And it’s Manhattan so granted, they speed down the street hood to bumper with Holtzy’s signature reckless endangerment for a block and a half before getting stopped by lights, but Patty’s singing too loudly to care, breeze hitting her square in the face and making her laugh, with those carefully collected records scattering all over her boots. She’ll regret that later, but she’s too busy screaming as Holtzy laughs like a maniac and drifts the Ecto into a screeching halt on the jam-packed street in front of their destination, in a spin that knocks at least six years off all their lives as Erin shrieks _goddammit Holtzmann_ and Patty claws for her seatbelt.

But they’re pros at the unpacking by now, their madcap engineer bouncing out of the driver’s seat while everyone else is still peeling themselves off of windows and Patty’s gathering her bundle of notes, stuffing them into her thigh pocket for safekeeping and spilling out the door. Holtzy tugging out the rolling bed with their packs before they fall into their usual lineup, each helping the woman on her right suit up and secure her gear.

The sidewalks are crowded and there’s always a few people gaping as they pass, but it’s high noon on a Friday and October’s still full tourist season, so that’s not really much of a shocker—if Patty wasn’t already involved up to her ears, she’d be curious too. A popular celebrity wax museum in midtown Manhattan that hardly takes off for holidays, shut on a random weekday claiming _scheduled construction, please pardon our dust_ in every window? Smells like bullshit to even the most unsavvy of New Yorkers.

Unsurprisingly the museum sees a fair amount of foot traffic, and the construction bumpers up against the main doorway bottlenecks the pavement, filtering so many passersby breathing down their necks that Patty frowns, choosing to hold back with Holtzmann on the curb beside the Ecto as Abby barrels off in the direction of their client; a frowning man in a suit by the door who awkwardly waves them over, like the act of greeting them by their ghost-emblazoned vehicle is too much.

“You been in here before, Holtzy?”

Holtzy swings a casual shrug, head tipped back like she’s sizing up the place. “Not since the mid-nineties.”

Patty does the math in her head, brows quirking. “Baby, this place didn’t open till 2000.”

“Oh,” is all Holtzmann says, stuffing her hands into her uniform pockets and smirking at the sidewalk, kicking at the curb like it’s got her number. “Must be banned from a _different_ wax museum.”

And Patty only has time to throw her a disbelieving blink before Abby’s suddenly at her side, clapping her on the shoulder and holding up a fat ring of janitor’s keys by her pinky, all business except for that dimpled grin that’s so contagious. “Okay ladies, ready to go bust some ghosts?”

They actually enter through a side door a few yards down the sidewalk, which Patty’s grateful for because climbing over barricades ain’t really her thing, and that was before she caught standing-room tickets for _Les Mis_ a few years back. Erin’s in front of her as they make their way up another flight of steps, and past her head Abby’s dark ponytail is bouncing as she leads the way, shiny new PKE meter at the ready as she feeds them the gist of their patron’s concerns, that upbeat midwestern accent echoing through the stairwell.

“According to our client, weird noises and unexplainable events have been reported in the haunted tunnel walkthrough, scaring the actors hired to scare _visitors_ in the off hours, which. Talk about _dramatic irony_.”

“You could say they were _booed_ offstage,” Holtzmann cuts in, and when Patty groans there’s a snicker two steps behind even as Abby grins, snagging the pun with a pointed wave.

“ _Exactly_. And when customers weren’t around, some of the scarers stated they were either pushed or thrown into walls by an unseen force. The first guy to report the spectre quit a couple of weeks ago, but it’s started happening during business hours and people are walking off the job, so now they want it out, stat. My guess is at least a Class Three in there, if not worse. Patty?”

And that’s her cue, Patty snapping into informative mode as she nods, hefting her pack. “Oh, yeah. So I’ve been doin’ some digging, but the biggest complaint was the elevators—they’ve been routinely inspected, but there’s been a lotta recent reports about the cab reaching a floor, then plummeting a few stories with the doors still open. Hasn’t happened for a few weeks accordin’ to my records, but I’d say avoid ‘em anyway.” And there’s an itch at the back of her neck, the nagging thought that maybe she _should_ have spent more time on research—but that _was_ the most important point, and the whole bust seems pretty straightforward; they’ve even got a location pinpointed inside the exhibit.

“Thanks Patty—and that’s exactly what Wayne warned us about, so stairs only, ladies. This is a big museum, get on your walkie if we get separated.”

And that’s about that, just a whole lot of quiet huffing as they mount three more flights of stairs, and Erin muttering about needing gel insoles for her boots before they reach the top; once there Abby’s tugging open the door to bring them to the first exhibit, out of the bland white concrete of the maintenance stairwell and into the brightly patterned walls of the museum proper.

“It’s a lot creepier without people,” Erin notes, and Patty wonders curiously when _Erin_ of all people had found time with her stringent academic schedule to pop by this place, and maybe more importantly, _why._ She’s betting on a great story, maybe a date gone wrong. Or better yet, an office bonding trip, because Patty doesn’t know too much about Erin’s backstory at Columbia outside of her being fired, but she can just imagine the agony of filing through here with university colleagues, everyone stopping to pose at one tacky figure after another—that sounds like a thin slice of hell.

Speaking of, they’re just strolling past the main elevators when there’s a cheery little _ding!_ that makes her blood run cold, whirling a look to her teammates as the doors open, slow enough for them to step back as a wide-eyed unit and Patty’s heart is double-timing in her chest… to a whole lot of nothing. Just an empty cab, and _okay, there’s probably a reasonable explanation for that_. Until it suddenly drops out of sight with the doors still wide open, and Patty’s gasping _shit_ as Abby breathes _whoa_ and Holtzmann’s quirking one of those blonde brows at the empty shaft, mildly impressed.

“What _ghost_ up, must come down.”

Erin’s slightly less droll about the whole thing, and Patty’s backing that horse. “The stairs were definitely the better choice.”

They troop past a hall of inanimate red-carpet celebrities, all perfectly preserved in time through the magic of wax, and a lot of hard work—creepy as hell, but it’s a painstaking process and Patty steps carefully around Jen Aniston’s double, eager to share her research with her friends and giving that dude from _Twilight_ some serious side-eye as they pass. “Yo, you know each wax figure takes up to four months to make? And a whole bunch of artists, it’s way more than just making a 3D model or a body cast.”

“Must be why Mayor Bradley’s so keen for us to lay off the trigger,” Abby agrees shrewdly, even as Holtzmann blows a raspberry from the back of the line like the sentiment comes as a personal affront. “We’ll just have to make sure not to hit anything important, shouldn’t be too hard.”

They’re crossing into the next room of figures, film characters of every era watching like silent guardians when the fluorescent lights flicker overhead, and Patty freezes, senses back on high alert: Erin halts in front of her, twitching a hand that never quite makes it to her gun, and Abby’s frowning at the ceiling, suspicious. It’s a few tense seconds but the bulb fizzes, seems to resolve itself, and there’s a collective group sigh no one really wants to admit to as they press on, because they are goddamn _professionals_.

“Oh my god, _E.T._ —” and Holtzy’s suddenly bounding past her, grinning face a thrilled mess as she extends a jubilant hand to the wrinkled alien face peeking out of a bicycle basket. “Jillian Holtzmann, we met when I was four. Listen, about outer space? I have _so_ many questions.”

Patty’s shaking her head as she passes, grin blooming across her face despite herself because she’s not so sure Holtzy cares either way. “Baby, you know he ain’t real, right?”

“Not _this_ one, but the _real_ one may be _listening_.”

They’re on their guard when they finally wind round to the haunted tunnel portion, which looks relatively bland under the sterile fluorescent lighting; there’s an obvious path for visitors to tread and a labyrinthine series of shelves, of alcoves and archways for scarers to hide, but nothing readily amiss. Patty’s got a clear head and a chest strap full of ghost grenades, and even with her usual overactive imagination, the tunnel remains empty; when they branch out to check she feels nothing, not even a stray hair rise on the back of her neck. Nothing odd at all, which is weird in itself, but she’ll take it like a champ.

“Guys, I got nothing,” Abby calls, from where she’s over inspecting a wall of black-light bulbs, shrugging as she holds up the inert PKE meter for show. “Not a whirl, no signs of life.”

“Or death,” Erin corrects, and they give the space a final sweep before agreeing it’s empty, slightly miffed at the lack of activity but hey, maybe the museum’s elevators just have a severe case of vertigo and if that’s all, you won’t hear Patty complaining. This place is creepy enough without throwing in a dose of the supernatural, and the mood is fairly lively as they saunter back towards the front of the scare exhibit, Holtzmann hopping ahead in line to bounce alongside Abby, tap-dancing her way out of the tunnel and scatting some imaginary jazz number under her breath while Patty glances back down the empty maze, shaking her head.

“This ever happened to y’all before?”

Erin’s frowning right back, nose wrinkled. “No, this is awkward. I mean, what’ll we say to Wayne? ‘Sorry, the ghost showed itself out?’ Doesn’t make us look very professional.”

That is, of course, when several things happen at once.

They’re coming up on the secondary elevators when the doors open, and they’re ready for another empty cab so Patty’s shooting a sideways glance, fully prepared for the thing to drop on a dime. Naturally she does a double-take almost into Holtzy’s arms when she spots the silhouette stood facing the mirrored back of the unlit car, heart jumping a fucking foot right out of her chest as she gapes, and Erin bursts out with “Oh my god. _Oh my god_ , _guys_ …?” like she’s not sure everyone’s seeing the same creepy figure just… chilling there, staring at the back of the elevator.

Abby, ever the optimist, tries an uncertain _‘scuse me, sir?_ that seems to get them nowhere and okay, maybe this is some straight-up Scooby Doo nonsense; it was the crusty old white dude in a costume all along—until the figure _cracks_ , stiff and jerky as it slowly turns its head, and then they’re all screaming at the same time, scattering backwards in a stumbled fan of panic and Patty’s thinking _oh hell fuckin’ no_ , _I did not sign up for this exorcist bullshit_ as the PKE meter in Abby’s hand starts beeping and spinning like a thing possessed.

Erin’s grabbing for her gun and Patty’s not about this shit so she is too, proton wand heavy in her hands as Abby yelps and the _thing_ takes a step towards them, and this feels _so wrong_ but it’s definitely not human, it’s like that fucking mannequin from the Stonebrook and she’s pointing, trying to remember what they called it last time, something _transferral—_

“Full transferral embodiment!” Erin’s screeching and _oh that’s it_ , Patty bringing her gun to bear as the creature drags another step closer with the sound of breaking bones, stepping out into the light and it takes her a minute to realise it’s the _wax breaking apart_ , jerking its arms up and Patty stares, finger hovering over the red button because they’re not supposed to destroy shit, she knows that and respects it, but—

“Dude, _Abraham Lincoln_?” Stovepipe hat, big bushy beard, tall-ass motherfucker—the guy checks out, including the glassy-eyed look of the wax model variety, and she’s not really expecting an answer but then the thing _growls_ and charges forward like a zombie on smack. Patty’s hollering again, smashing the trigger on her gun just as three other streams join in, her fellow ‘busters apparently of the same sentiment, thank _fuck_.

“I take it back about husky men in hats, it was a _joke_!!” Abby’s wailing through the smell of burnt hair and splashing wax as the explosion rips through the room, and Patty knows she should maybe feel guilty because they just melted the shit out of _Abraham Lincoln_ but there’s a sudden roaring _whoosh_ as the spectre itself makes an appearance; right on time really because the thing flies out of the sad mess of wax and lands directly in the crossfire of their beams, kicking up an unearthly howl before it disintegrates into a gentle rain of ectoplasm, and _shit._

“Shit,” Patty says, staring at the charred mess of black suit accompanied by the panting gasps of her teammates, all of them lightly spackled in slime and Holtzmann steps forward, assesses the damage with an interested eye before snatching up the tall hat that somehow escaped the cataclysm without incident. Popping it on her head at a jaunty angle like she didn’t just pilfer it off a twice-dead ghost, curling a gloved hand under that sharp little chin and cocking a brow.

“All that talk about taking the penny out of circulation must have really got to him.”

There’s a sizzling _pop_ and the lights flash out, red glow of emergency exit signs brighter in the dark and Patty’s sweeping a look around the perimeter, even as Abby shakes her head and frowns, like whatever ghost still out there has wilfully disappointed her by remaining hidden. “Think Honest Abe wasn’t our only friend here ladies, we better split up.”

There’s a tacit assumption that Abby and Erin stick together on busts; their long-term history lends an advantage to anticipating one another’s movements that Patty completely defends, and if Holtzmann had inevitably drifted to sticking by her side early on in this ghostbusting business as a result, well. No reason to break up a good partnership; if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it… And if Patty’s enjoyed hanging with their team engineer on _and_ off busts maybe more than she should, who’s counting?

(She is, _she’s_ counting. They’ve been on sixteen accidental lunch dates and Patty’s paid for more street cart pretzels than any sane person ever would. She’s clearly a sucker of the highest degree because she’s enjoyed Every. Fucking. Minute.)

But it’s just how it is now, Abby and Erin; Patty and Holtzy, and they part ways with radios blurting static, guns warm, and flashlights securely lit; Abby’s warning them to _be careful guys_ for the eighth damn time and alright, Patty’s ready to chase this thing out into the open and _get ghost_. The pent-up verve must show on her face, because Holtzy’s backwards pacing alongside her as they make their way back to the start, that _ridiculous_ silk hat still inexplicably perched atop her frizzy head.

“We gonna win this time, Patty?”

“Baby, you know it.” And Patty doesn’t, but if their sneaky spectre is anywhere in this part of the museum, they’ll find it—and blast that hellion back from whence it came, subsequently adding another tally to the downstairs whiteboard: because in addition to this unofficial partnership business, they’ve also been running an unsanctioned competition for who can bust the most ghosts before Halloween. Best of luck to Abby and Erin, but their team doesn’t stand a snowball’s chance if Patty and Holtzy have anything to do with it, top hat and all: they didn’t come to play, they’re here to _win_.

Holtzmann’s response is a overbite of grin as she trots off to circle the room when there’s a kick of power and a buzzing surge, the place being suddenly flooded with light once more _—_ bland and sterile, casting uninspired shadows over the multitude of celebrity doubles but Patty’s sighing with relief, sending a cheery thumbs-up across the space to Holtzy, who’s stalking the room like Elmer Fudd in rabbit season, eyes narrowed through her safety glasses and hefting her proton gun with a fancy spin.

With the lights back on her opinion comes more readily than before, and Patty creases her brow as she pokes past a deserted photo kiosk, muttering to the room at large. “Hate these things, they’re like life-size dolls. I don’t trust ‘em.”

But despite her misgivings there’s nothing, not even after checking out every nook without incident and okay, this is starting to feel on the embarrassing side of things. Meeting in the middle under Brad Pitt’s wax nose, Patty studies the figure with a frown even as her friend reaches up, sits her hat atop his head, and pokes the statue in the middle of its grizzly beard with a pointed finger like she’s expecting results.

“You know, I used to think he was good lookin’ when I was younger, but these days…” Patty’s shaking her head, wrinkling her nose. “Angelina and Jen shoulda just gotten together in the first place, leave his stale ass in the dust.”

“Cut out the middle _man_ ,” Holtzy agrees with a knowing smirk, turning on her heel with a flourish and strutting off to the water fountain as Patty follows her with fond eyes, knowing she’s starin’ but fuck it, the view from up here is _great_. She’s about to suggest they double back, find out if their teammates have had better luck, when there’s a movement out of the corner of her eye and she freezes, turns her gaze slowly back to the besuited figure, who’s staring glassy-eyed off into the distance and _okay_ , Patty’s making up shit now, scaring herself. This is exactly why she stopped reading Stephen King before bed, she oughta know better.

And then Brad blinks.

“Oh my _holy Jesus GOD—_ ”

Patty’s screaming and fumbling for her gun and all she can think is _this is it this is how I die, by the hands of Brad Pitt’s shitty ghost clone_ but Holtzy’s suddenly there, sliding across the room on her knees, firing those twin pistols and Patty’s never seen a more welcome sight, stumbling back and gasping as the engineer hollers at the top of her lungs, zapping the now-molten legs right out from under Mr. Ocean’s Eleven and skidding into a pillar with a bellow.

“First rule of Fight Club: _stay the fuck away from Patty_!”

She doesn’t even have time to appreciate the rescue because they’re out of the frying pan and into the radioactive dutch oven; it’s like a cued-up track to Patty’s nightmares with the din of rupturing wax and the explosive blast of a proton grenade. Holtzy’s already untangling another from her chest strap and lobbing it across the room at the escaped spectre while Patty ducks for cover, snatching one off her own belt and pegging it directly at the green flash of ghost across the space.

“Holtzy, _behind you—_!” The warning shout gets caught in her throat but Holtzmann’s already spinning on a knee, pistols blazing and another hulking mannequin explodes at the waist, hot wax spattering as an unearthly howl rips through the space. Patty’s double-fisting grenades in the same direction, growling through her teeth _come and get it_ with darkest satisfaction as the wraith splats into a spray of slime, except it’s all over _her_.

“You okay, Pats?” Holtzy’s picking herself up off the floor, and she’s just jerking her chin in a grim nod because she is but this stuff is _fucking_ _gross_ , when the sound of ripping fabric and breaking wax shatters their brief respite—and Holtzmann’s back to business with a pivot and a manic grin, whirling over her shoulder to spot Bruce Willis lurching towards them, and this is definitely in the running for weirdest day at work, ever. Her girl looks like she’s enjoying this _far too_ much, but who is Patty to rain on her pop-culture poppin' parade, especially with Holtzy holding out those smoking pistols at arm’s length as Bruce’s stiff cracked fingers clutch for them, drawling from the side of her mouth like the world’s her action movie.

“ _Welcome to the paaarty,_ _pal_!”

And it’s _on_ , because that last ghost ate it so close to the engineer her wiry frame is now _drenched_ in exploded slime, frantically dropping her dual pistols to scrape the ectoplasm from her safety glasses, which are pretty much living up to their name at this point. Trouble is while Jillian Keller’s fumbling blind a second wax monstrosity’s suddenly at her back, and Patty’s scrambling for another explosive as she silently thanks Holtzmann’s inability to comprehend just _how many grenades is too many grenades;_ detonating it right behind her teammate to obliterate both waxy devil _and_ ghost at once.

With the roar of danger subsiding Patty’s pelting over to her twice-drenched ‘buster, though their recent peril seems a far-off thing just in looking at the grin plastered across Holtzy’s dripping green face; she’s a puppy in a mud puddle and _god_ why is this so endearing.

“Tell me that looked as _awesome_ as it felt.”

Busy scooping ectoplasm from her baby’s sticky forehead and cheeks, Patty’s uncovering the Holtzmann buried somewhere underneath with a grin that's stupid fond. “It looked awesome, baby. John McClane would’ve been proud.”

Her laugh comes easy as Holtzmann fist pumps the air, whoops _Die Hard_ ’s _other_ famous line while she smears a hand across her face, taking the rest of the green goop with it as Patty reaches up to feel her own hair, coming back with nothing but dismay: her braids are _all but saturated_ and _fuck_ , this shit just got personal.

Patty’s feeling for her radio to see how their ghost girls are faring—hopefully _cleaner_ than they are—when she starts at the sudden _crackle pop_ of the device, nothing but static feeding back just as Holtzy rocks up with that pointy noise wrinkled, grabbing for the walkie even though she has her own, because of course she is. And Holtzy's tinkering with the blasted machine, giving it her best go but the strained sigh gusted past her lips doesn’t really speak victory, handing it back with a limp hand and thumbs down. “ _Nada_. Dead.”

“Guess they ain’t just affecting the lights and elevators.”

Patty groans and stuffs the useless thing back at her hip, glancing around warily in case there are any more lurking spectres but finding nothing, grimacing at the carnage they’ve wrought across the entire room and _damn, hope this won't be coming out of our paycheck._

But mess aside it’s empty, and Holtzmann catching a spin is the only movement in this godforsaken joint; girl stuffs her slime-sodden hands on her equally sticky hips and tips her a smirk that is _definitely not_ doing things for Patty and her keyed-up heart rate. “What d’you say we blow this popsicle stand, Pattycakes?”

She’s already nodding as they break into a sprint back through the winding exhibit, pounding the floor and narrowly avoiding a scary-ass Spongebob replica that Holtzy shoots a wave as they tear past. “Hell yeah.”

They’re running past at full tilt, pack jouncing along her shoulders and smacking her in the ass but Patty doesn’t care, although the familiar _ting!_ of the elevator has her stumbling a glance back over her shoulder, lights flickering again but there’s another figure, stood in the dark of the cab and as it takes a stiff, cracking step, Patty’s fumbling a reach for Holtzy’s arm, eyes wide because _not fucking again_ —

But there’s something ugly and contained about the silhouette that has her peering closer before she’s recoiling in disgust; it’s only wax but that face has been plastered across news reports and every single political column for the last fucking year—this wax-coated spectre’s flesh counterpart has given Patty enough reason to _fight_ and she’s not scared anymore, she’s fucking _pissed._ And the figure might as well be the toupee-topped asshole himself, because she’s rearing up and grabbing the proton gun off her pack faster than Holtzy drives, slamming the red trigger button as she fires a stream of white-hot energy directly into the candidate’s wax figure, steamed up like a motherfucking tea kettle.

“You ain’t _never_ gonna be _my president_ —get _wrecked_ , fuckface!”

The explosion sends pieces flying everywhere, wax pooling on the floor and figure long defeated even as another beam joins her own, and when Patty tears her gaze away from the carnage Holtzmann’s firing beside her with a snarl on her face, both of them blasting the effigy with enough firepower to send bits splattering all over the room, and never mind the ghost because that sad soul is long gone under the onslaught.

It takes a good twenty seconds for them to lay off the guns and by then Patty’s panting, gasping as she looks to the smoldering remains of the figure, then Holtzy, and then they’re both laughing and wheezing and high-fiving because _take that, you hateful piece of shit_ before they’re hurtling back through the haunted tunnel, lights still winking on and off but Patty’s energized, she’s found her second wind and plunges ahead, hot on her engineer’s heels because they’ve got shit to do and ghost girls to save.

Or at least it seems so, except by the time they’re crashing into the main gallery Abby’s kicking at the charred loafers of an unidentifiable melted figure, and Erin’s firing on a blur of spectral green that showers her in a splash of ectoplasm, whining _Oh, not again_ as Patty pounds down the steps to help but that seems to be everything. Holtzy’s sliding into her with a cool grin, flicking those now-soiled, black-rimmed safety glasses down her sharp nose and saluting their fellow ‘busters with her customary two fingers. “You damsels in need of a rescue?”

Abby’s jerking her attention up from the shoes, looking startled and guilty and furious all at once. “Guys, _where the hell_ were you?! We had _four_ ghosts in here, Erin kept calling—”

“The walkies don’t work, they’re static,” Patty cuts in, jerking a look to her compatriot who nods, and Abby relents, looking back down to her demolished foe and appearing incredibly uncomfortable before Erin spills the beans, voice a shocked whisper.

“Abby shot _JFK,_ ” and _oh man_ , no wonder she looks so damn contrite, although that quickly changes when the culprit reaches over to smack Erin’s shoulder like she’s been betrayed, Holtzmann smirking like the devil with _Abby, you always did enjoy grassy knolls_ and god _damn_ , Patty is literally the only adult around here. Only damn one.

Between all of that nonsense they finally manage to get out a coherent story, both parties filling each other in on what’s been missed; Patty and Holtzy excitedly relating their discovery with the grenades, and the effectiveness of Holtzy’s twin pistols (“— _Abby it was EXACTLY like_ Die Hard, _you should have seen us—_ ”) against spectral possession, not to mention their body(less) count of ghosts busted ( _“That’s four baby, five if you count Lincoln—” “Totally countin’ him Pats, we saw him first—_ ”) that Erin hotly contests, but to no avail.

On the flip side, dream team of Gilbert and Yates seem to have busted three (“ _Four total, Lincoln counts for_ us _too!”_ Erin’s still protesting, but good luck to her) in the gallery, and there’s no real way to nail down a tally of total spectres still out there without another thorough walk-through—but then Patty’s digging in her slime-splattered pockets, frown creasing deep and dark down her face as she tugs out a crumple of notes and _Jesus_ she feels so unprofessional, she should have done this at the firehouse. But they’re here now taking a breather and Patty’s flipping through the ink-stained stack, skimming every unhelpful review and building code measurement before reaching a throwaway note, deep in the middle of a forum post about the building’s century-old foundation as her teammates dish.

“Looks like they got you good, Holtz—”

“With the slime, I know. Fancy a hug?”

Patty reads the post twice before she starts, interrupting the friendly-bickering between her science girls with a gasp.

“Oh, _damn_ —guys this is about the old hotel that was here before, before the museum or restaurants or anything came in—” And she holds up the creased and wrinkled paper like proof, explaining readily. “So like, I couldn’t find anything that explained about the elevators being weird, right? Just the malfunctions themselves, and complaints—listen, it’s cos I was looking for _the wrong time_ , back when _these_ elevators were installed! But when this place was a hotel first, with a _different_ elevator but the _same shaft,_ something happened, and look—” Patty’s waving it to show, pointing to the significant line as Holtzmann leans in to peer at the text, expression tugging into something intrigued, _excited_.

“It says, ‘ _Reports of an elevator crash was treated as rumour, although conspiracy theorists believe it could have been a cover-up to hide the failing hotel’s prostitution ring that finally shut its doors for good. Because the hotel refused to allow access to its records, the crash was never confirmed, though an unreliable witness stated that the accident claimed as many as_ a dozen _lives in the fall—_ ’” And here Patty looks up, eyes lit with the thrill of the solve, connecting the pieces for her companions as she presses on, holding up a triumphant finger. “‘ _—which was said to have occurred when_ a cable snapped _, sending the cab plummeting six floors to the basement._ ’”

Abby murmurs _oh god_ as Erin shudders, cringing at the outcome before tilting in closer, trying to read for herself with that scientific method mindset clicking into gear, analyzing all the evidence. “Is there anything else?”

Patty skims the page, shaking her head as Holtzmann clacks her teeth together, and _lord_ that is distracting but she presses on. “Nah, just goes on to say it was never confirmed because the witness was a Romanian immigrant working as a bellhop, but I think that’s just the author bein’ racist.”

Satisfied, Abby nods and claps her hands, looking ready to take on the world through her slime-smudged glasses. “That sounds like our ghosts, then—great work Patty, that means four left. We’ll just count down.” And then she’s off, leading the way and Patty trails into line, tucking the notes back into her thigh pocket with a lackluster nod, but she doesn’t _feel_ like she’s done great—if she’d have done her research _properly_ , known all this from _before they left the firehouse_ , maybe they’d have caught all the ghosts by now without even approaching the level of damage already done. Vindicated thrill from their earlier busting faded, Patty doesn’t feel great; she feels like she’s failed.

There’s an adrenaline-killing, distinct _lack_ of action as they walk through virtually the rest of the museum without incident, close and tight together in a single file of nerves in their usual order. They’ve been down this road before and now that they’ve got a head count to fulfil, the ghostbusters are just ready to be fucking _done._ Right on cue that’s when the lights flicker as they’re backtracking past a motionless Indiana Jones display, Patty growls _old news_ under her breath along with Erin’s _I hate it when it does that_ and Abby sighs like an exasperated mother. It’s in that moment a loud creak draws their group focus, the diorama’s oversize boulder suddenly rumbling towards them down its moss and arachnid-covered ramp _which they are at the bottom of_ and Patty’s yelping as she shoves Holtzmann’s skinny ass out of the way, because that shit’s too wild for anyone’s obituary and Holtzy’s _hers_ besides.

The thing’s picking up speed and they scatter like proactive bowling pins, light up their guns as it mows down the archaeologist himself and they’re firing on the giant set piece even as it bounces into the opposite wall with an ear-splitting crash, all four streams crackling when the ball explodes into chunks of styrofoam and ghosts because _of fucking course_ it does.

“One for each of us ladies, take your pick!” Abby’s grinning her endgame moue at the howling mess of green circling their heads like spectral shoes in a laundromat dryer. Erin’s already firing her sidearm with bared teeth and Patty takes the one to her left, zapping it in her beam with a satisfaction she’s starting to crave. Holtzmann’s crouched beneath them all, firing straight up through the middle to catch a straggler headed for the ceiling, and Abby nukes a wailing green streak before the bastard can disappear through the wall, its last withered howl _finally_ signalling the end to this nightmare gallery.

Though that’s when the lights bump on bright, returning to their full, blaring intensity coupled by a thick shower of slime falling its way from on high; Holtzy’s last bust soaks them in a closing coat of ectoplasm and there’s _nothing_ heaven-sent about it, Erin airing the team’s tired displeasure rather aptly as she snaps, green-cheeked. 

“For _fuck’s_ sake _, Holtzmann_!”

 

***

 

They pour out onto the street exit on a tidal wave of jubilation and slime, Patty can feel a sticky clump oozing down the back of her neck and _ugh_ , she can’t wait to get out of this jumpsuit and into a goddamn _shower_ —though of course that’s when they’re spotted, a cluster of twenty-something girls sends up a shriek from the sidewalk by the Ecto and there’s suddenly a reporter on their heels. Wayne the museum suit’s materializing out of the crowd with a panicked look as a microphone is shoved in Erin’s face, and a man from the curb shouts _hey Yates, you single?_ Holtzmann’s holding up a handful of ectoplasm, blowing a slime-covered kiss to those screaming girls that coils something sullen in Patty’s gut, and Erin interrupts her interview to shout “ _Not for you!_ ” at Abby’s admirer, and _everything is fucking chaos_ ; so much for the low profile the mayor’s office ordered.

But then Holtzy’s leaning into her side, plastering some of her hand-slime onto Patty’s ass with a giddy slap that makes her jump and _shit_ _not this again,_ there’s _cameras_ and screaming fans and a beefy guy draping himself over the hood of the Ecto, and the reporter’s asking “Ms. Tolan, can you tell us what happened in there?”

Patty’s at a loss, because someone’s started blasting a retro-sounding beat from a boombox that she _thinks_ might be singing about _them_ , Abby’s trying to coax The Rock’s younger brother off his perch as their new hood ornament, and there’s a _slime print on her ass_ except that it’s from Holtzy—so she goggles at the news anchor for a hot minute, finally sobering up enough to realise that this reception? It’s for _them_ , an impromptu street party for the Ghostbusters from the city that loves them, and that’s what finally sends her walking on air, grinning into the camera as she pumps a fist to the sky, laughing because this is what winning feels like, slime and all:

“We came, we saw, we KICKED ITS _ASS!_ ”

 

***

 

Like any good party, no one’s really in a hurry to leave, but there’s the small issue of being covered in a boulder’s worth of ectoplasm and also the sudden appearance of three more news stations that has them piling into the car, scored by Abby’s ringtone screaming from the glove compartment with _sixteen_ missed calls from the mayor’s office.

“That’s a problem for future us,” Holtzmann leers as she guns the engine, and they’re back to speeding through the streets of Manhattan, lights flashing and sirens turned up to eleven and damn, Patty’s still high, because the breeze whipping those soggy blonde curls through the window is the best thing she’s ever seen.

They’re brought back down to earth soon enough, racing through Tribeca before screeching to a stop in front of the firehouse and laying on the horn, and it takes a minute like it always does for Kevin to stumble out, opening those red doors wide so Holtzy can slide the Ecto right in their reception-cum-garage. Moments later they’re all extricating themselves from the sticky leather seats and groaning at the slime, it’s _everywhere_.

“It’s in my _hair_ ,” Erin’s whining as they trudge up the steps, trying not to touch the rail although Abby’s trailing green everywhere like a snail in glasses and Patty’s shaking her head, glancing back down on the floor where Holtzmann’s killing her post-bust ritual, inspecting pack straps and proton wands, fussing with wires and timers like a concerned parent.

“Girl, come talk to me when you gotta scoop ectoplasm out of your braids. You know how long this takes?”

Alright, so short tempers are _possibly_ a side effect of being marinated in green shit, and by the time they’ve made it upstairs and under the scalding heat of the tiled wall of shower heads, Patty’s the first to admit it as she sighs under the spray, muscles relaxing as she murmurs _sweet lord, thanks for hot water_ to the room at large. Erin’s across from her, scrubbing at her arms with one of those fat nail brushes and Patty’s reaching for her extra pumice stone, actually ready to offer it over because it’ll do a better job of sloughing that goop off her skin; that’s of course the moment Holtzy chooses to stroll in, buck _naked_ and that’s fine, they’re _all_ naked except that Patty hasn’t fallen like a ton of wet bricks for anyone else in the room, _ha-ha fuck_. So that’s her cue to turn around like greased lightning, scraping the slime off her shoulders with the pumice rock and pretending she’s anywhere else but sharing a shower with Jillian Holtzmann, because if she looks now there ain’t a ghost in the world who could pry her away; she’s seen Holtzy _with_ clothes and that’s a goddamn catastrophe in itself.

“Hey Erin, how’d you get so fresh after a slimin’?” And Holtzy’s sauntering past the physicist, brows tweaked even as Erin wraps her arms more tightly around herself, facing the wall like she’s embarrassed to be nude with the rest of them; Patty feels sorry for her. Poor thing looks straight out of a junior high locker-room on the first day of gym.

“Not a good time, Holtz,” Erin grits over her shoulder, but Holtzmann only chuckles, deep in her throat like trouble even as Abby perks up, always ready to patch up the group dynamic.

“Hey, so you guys wanna get pizza after this?”

All things considered, Patty’s handling this quite well actually, soaking up the hot water and getting pretty far on the quest to find her inner chill when their whooping engineer is bouncing under the spray beside her, reaching across a shrieking Erin to smack a high-five onto Abby’s outstretched hand and Patty’s not going to look she’s _not gonna look_ except she has to, because Holtzy’s nudging her under the steam, tapping her on the arm still bragging, still grinning _Patty what did you think of the new grenades, did you see the thing do the thing? Wow haha I thought Erin was a goner—_

“ _Screw you_ , Holtzmann!” Erin huffs across the tile, arms still folded over her chest like a pretzel but Holtzy’s snickering _you want to?_ and bumping Patty again and _goddammit_ does she literally have _no concept of personal space_ because Patty’s _trying_ not to look, like she’s trying _so hard_ ; she doesn’t want to make this _weird_ except that she turns to actually comment on the new grenades and it’s her undoing.

Because Holtzy’s right there _, right fucking there_  with those curls all wet and stringy in front of her eyes, and rubbing an actual goddamn bar of soap under one arm like a Looney Toons character. She’s got her eyes shut and she’s laughing throaty and raw into the spray on her face and _hello_ , Patty’s gaze slips and that nipple piercing that she hasn’t stopped thinking about for two weeks is right there, right there _in her fucking face_ ; it’s silver and black like a half-moon with _spikes_ and that’s where all higher cognitive function stops, _oh my god_.

“ _Oo-oohh_ _yeah_ , now I’m walkin’ on sunsh _iiiiine_ …”

And Patty wants to die a little bit because Holtzy’s started singing into her shampoo bottle, twirling around with her eyes closed and Patty’s melting, Patty’s pretty sure she’s going to hell for perving on her best friend, Dante totally reserved a circle for that somewhere. And forcing herself into a sudsed-up state of zen ain’t exactly going to reverse that ticket but it’s the best she’s got, eyes closed and mind as blank as possible, back to scrubbing her chest to get some of this slime gone and get on with her fucking day—except that’s when she gets a loofah to the back, because the universe is laughing at her.

“Oh _god_ sorry, I meant to hit _Holtzmann,_ ” Abby’s gasping, bright red and Holtzy’s giggling off the narrow escape, diving for the offending item with grabby hands and bending over, _right in front_ of Patty and _why the hell_ why is she being tested like this; she’s a good person, she pays her goddamn taxes and donates to charity. 

“You two need to _grow up_.” Erin snips at them both, and Patty’s inclined to agree because this is _situation critical_ and she wants it over with as soon as possible, maybe she’ll be able to finally fucking _think_ when Holtzy’s wearing clothes—except for now Holtzmann’s chucking the loofah right at the back of Erin’s head with a wet _smack,_ and _boom_ goes the dynamite.

That’s done it, Ghost Girl’s whirling with a fire in her eyes usually reserved for said ghosts and stuck-up scientific peers, and Patty’s no fool, she’s getting the hell _out of here_ before the next world war kicks off; Abby’s coughing a warning in Holtzy’s direction even as Erin snatches up the favoured projectile and her nail brush, hurling them both at her attacker with a startling laugh when the engineer catches a brush to the forehead and alright, this is down-spiralling _rapidly_.

“Hey _Holtz_ , karma’s a _bitch_!”

“Abby, _help_ —”

Bottles and shower puffs are already flying, it’s too late to save her shower caddy from raiders and Patty gives up the ghost so to speak, wades into the fray, plucking the shampoo bottle from Holtzy’s waving hand to squeeze it over her soaking head and paint her baby in sheeny purple cream (that suits her _far_ better than green slime anyway, Patty’s _doing her a favor_ ) as the engineer wails, betrayed. “Pats _, how could you—_ ”

Ever the loyal friend, Abby’s pitching a fat sponge at Patty’s head in a misguided attempt to save Holtzmann and she dodges, turning the shampoo on her next victim as Erin cackles, finally vindicated and Patty’s throwing her head back, belly-laughing to the roof because sometimes it feels _good_ to stop being such a _goddamn adult_ —and moments later when she gets a fistful of shaving cream to the face, courtesy of one Jillian Holtzmann, happiness tastes like soap and aching laughter and _she fucking loves it_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh, my beauties, what a month it's been. for everyone still hurting from election day, know that writing this remains our act of creative spite, because having that dumpster cheeto taken out by a black woman and a lesbian felt like poetic justice. #notmypresident
> 
> nyc trivia: the [throat-slashing bicyclist article](http://nyshistoricnewspapers.org/lccn/sn83031151/1895-06-27/ed-1/seq-1/) is actually true, as are complaints of [elevators occasionally falling](http://a810-bisweb.nyc.gov/bisweb/OverviewForComplaintServlet?requestid=5&vlcompdetlkey=0000992014) in the madame tussaud's nyc building! (building records are wild, guys.) most of the mentioned figures are accurate to that location, although the whole elevator of doom is not. 
> 
> sucho89 saved all our asses on this chapter, i owe her the moon. all your love and comments are magical, i owe you some stars. see you next chapter for some gay stuff!
> 
> titles from e.e. cummings and starship


	5. up in the clouds, high as a kite

Maneuvering the Ecto through the soaking streets of Crown Heights, their wipers are slashing a heavy downpour off the windshield, heater fogging up the windows even as Patty rubs a fist on the glass, tries to catch a glimpse of the miserable street outside through the rain but it's pretty damn futile; late October's throwing everything it's got on top of their heads in typical autumn fashion. 

“Hell, I’m all for rain but this can stop _any_ day now, I won’t complain.” 

It’s an attempt at coaxing her girls into conversation but there’s no reply, just the dull roar of the Ecto under the deluge and Abby parroting off their destination address, phone smashed to her cheek with the mayor’s office in her ear and Patty sighs, plunks her face against the misted window to watch the raindrops skirting down the glass and mumble. 

“Could stop by my birthday. That’d be nice.”

On the cracked leather seat beside her Erin's clutching her sidearm, those auburn brows pulled down with anxiety while Abby frowns into the phone, midwestern accent thickening as she counters over the blasting heater.

“Yeah, we understand—no, it’s not for _sure_ a bust, we’re prepared just in case. Well ghosts _can_ kill people, but since we’re not sure what we’re dealing with we’re heading there now _—_ ”

And that ain’t exactly reassuring, especially considering the emergency call is one of their first since the trail of destruction a dozen figures deep at Madame Tussaud’s a few weeks back: the mayor’s had the Ghostbusters on a short enough leash, and that’s without even _mentioning_ the mountain of paperwork now required every time they even step outside the firehouse in uniform. Not always a bad thing—some of that shit needs official, on-record logging, and being held accountable is probably the safest way to keep their newfound careers intact—but they’re serious about it being done right, and Patty’s not looking forward to another haranguing from the top brass of City Hall. Even if Holtzy did slouch practically into her lap the entire meeting, and talk (whisper) shit about Mayor Bradley’s receding hairline when no one else could hear.

But checking for ghosts in the middle of a murder investigation that _could_ be death-by-spectre, and tangling with the New York's _finest_ runs pretty far down on Patty’s list of afternoon delights—and she’s just hoping that if it _is_ a ghost, undead dude’ll come in clutch and turn himself in to their proton guns, stat.

There’s a loud honk from behind when Holtzmann slams on the brakes and nearly sideswipes a garbage truck, right wing-mirror shuddering as the engineer hisses under her breath, screeching them through the yellow light ahead like a bat out of hell; Patty’s grabbing for the handle above her head with both hands, trades a wide-eyed glance with a nauseous-looking Erin across the seat. Abby on the other hand barely bats a damn lash, still chattering down the line with an open notebook on her lap.

“Of _course_ we’ll log it, _properly_ this time—Patty’s got a full historical profile of the building and if it’s the spirit of a previous tenant, we’ll— _oh_ , okay. Yeah, _I’ll tell her_ —” Abby tugs the phone away from her face long enough to flip Holtzmann a shrug across the gear shift. “Jennifer says you can’t just write six lines of calculations and then _‘I biffed it’_ in your section of the report. Apparently that’s not specific enough.”

A violent throat-clearing from the driver’s seat is the only indication Holtzy’s even heard, both hands braced on the wheel for once and that’s a positive thing; Patty’s gonna chalk that up to the storm outside and maybe the finale to her little Evil Knievel routine. A girl can hope.

Holtzmann eases them up to the looming outline of a taped-off warehouse, sidling alongside a cop car with lights blazing, competing with the red-and-blue haze of an NYPD cruiser and casting rain-soaked flashes all over the street—and then jerks the Ecto into park so suddenly Patty lurches forward, flung hard against her seatbelt with a gasp and _jesus, what the hell_ —

Somehow the only one totally at ease, Abby’s just wrapping up, plucking her airborne notebook off the dash with a nod, like this is business as usual—and maybe it is, she’s been with Holtzmann longer than anyone else. “Alright, thanks. We’re here, I’ll be in touch.”

Erin cringes with a fretful glance out the rain-smeared window, gnawing her lip at the double-parked Ecto blocking the road, horns and death glares on their bumper from all sides. “Holtzmann, I don’t _think_ this is a _parking spot_ —”

“It is now.”

No quip, no cocky defense, just Holtzy’s pointed face looking sharp and pale in the green glow of the modified dash light as the seatbelt warning dings, and Patty’s no expert but something is _off_.

Abby and Erin are already piling out of the car, the latter carping at the downpour as they scramble round the Ecto, popping open the back door and already rolling out the bed with the packs while Patty’s still unbuckling her belt, still watching Holtzmann in the driver’s seat, crushing gloved hands on the wheel before she slaps the dash, jerks open the glove compartment once, twice. Slams it shut again and rummages under her seat like she’s lost her keys, or maybe her damn mind. The driver’s seatbelt alarm screams louder.

“Holtzy?” No answer, except that goddamn _dinging_ and Patty’s ready to maybe rip its wires out from under the dash, frowning at the erratic motion from up front before her girl hisses through her teeth, and that decides her quick. Patty yanks open her door, sloshing two strides up to the passenger side and popping it open, near diving into Abby’s seat and tucking her legs in to bang it shut behind. At least she’s between braids at the minute, cos her natural ‘do is tolerating this rain a helluva lot better.

When she looks up from wiping the wet out of her eyes, Holtzmann’s staring at her through tinted lenses like she’s grown three heads, and Patty licks a bit of rainwater off her top lip, brow creasing with concern. “Baby, you alright?”

A tap on Patty’s window effectively decimates any answer, Patty grimacing at the officer as she cracks it open up top but the dick in rain gear waves her to roll it down all the way, pointing at his badge and barking like he owns the fucking street.

“You can’t park here.”

Holtzmann juts her chin, and it's impossible to miss the frustration knotting up her shoulders, high tension cabled through her like the goddamn Brooklyn bridge. “I can. I got a permit.”

“ _No one's_ got a permit to double-park, smartass. And this is a pending murder investigation, so move your car before I write you up for a no-standing violation—”

The engineer's leaning forward over the gear shift, poised on the edge of snapping back but he cuts her off and Patty grits her teeth; she’s getting fucking _soaked_ and sitting between Holtzy and this asshole is putting her on edge.

“— _and I’ll have your vehicle towed_.”

Patty barely catches the flat glare angled at the cop when she turns back around, but Holtzy’s already ragging the engine back to life with a dangerous roar, revving the gas like a threat as Abby appears in the background, water streaking down her glasses when she asks, loud over the rain. “ _What’s wrong, guys? We need to head inside_.”

And if she ends up with an answer to that one Patty would like to fucking _know_ , because Holtzmann’s glaring agitatedly up at the rearview mirror, squinting as Erin pushes in the rolling bed, shuts the back door at a snail’s pace. “Uh, we gotta move. I’ll help Holtzy park—”

That’s about as far as she gets before Holtzy’s peeling out of the carved-out space with a screech of tires, horns blaring as she cuts off the handful of cars trying to get around the double-parked Ecto, and Patty’s born-and-raised Brooklyn but damn, she ain’t heard honks that angry since she was twelve and her brother Tre’vonn was learning stick. Holtzmann’s driving about as poorly, mashing down the gas pedal with the same lurching start-stop bullshit like she’s suddenly forgotten how to operate a motor vehicle, Patty’s heart sticking in her throat when they skip through an intersection and she grips for the side-handle, shoving down the fluster in her chest. “Yo Furiosa, pump the brakes.”

In response Holtzy just tightens her hands on the wheel and drops her speed by a few miles, peering grimly down the street but somehow still nearly clips a handful of parked cars as they ride down the block, correcting at the last moment and pulling to an even stop at the light—and maybe that was a smooth landing, but they still gotta park and rain’s drowning the windshield and man, bump this shit.

“Girl, stay in your lane.”

It’s weird as fuck that she ain’t saying anything, and Patty’s kicking down the urge to shake it out of her as she flicks worried eyes over her friend, because Holtzy’s still clutching at the steering and shaking her head slightly—to refocus her vision maybe, or like she’s got a headache and it’s bawling at her— something’s wrong, she knows that much; Patty tries again, gentler this time. “Baby, you okay?”

When Holtzy finally turns her gaze up from the street that baleful scowl is long gone; lit in the glare of the dash lights she looks almost, _scared_ , about to speak but the moment’s split by _another_ fucking honk, because the light’s gone green and Patty wants to help; her baby’s taking a shuddery breath and kneading her hands on the wheel while the dude behind them lays on the horn and that’s her cue, Patty’s stepping in.

There’s brake lights up the block through the ebbing drizzle and she points to the soon-to-be space, Holtzmann shucking the gear stick obediently into drive and starting off towards the spot without incident, meekly braking just before and Patty reminds her, patient. “Indicate, Holtzy.”

Her girl does, clicking on the blinking light and they’re holding up traffic _again_ , but the asshole behind them can suck it, because they’re about to park, and Patty’s just realised something—sat here watching Holtzy’s twitchy hands drumming at her knees, tugging at her fingers like she’s trying to come back awake, it’s _stupid_ obvious and she drops everything else, asking as soft as she can.

“Sweetie, you take your meds this morning?”

The driver ahead’s pulling out of the space, leaving a Land Rover-size gap for the Ecto to fit, but her focus is on Holtzy as her baby turns guilty eyes up, glare of taillights on her glasses as she mumbles, almost too low to hear. “Forgot to order my last prescription. Thought I could grab something from the store while we were out.”

Rain’s streaking down the glass and stretching shadows on them both, but Patty’s too busy thinking how damn _reckless_ that is, Holtzmann getting into the driver’s seat when all her nerves are shot to hell and not fucking _telling anyone_ about it—now Holtzy’s biting her lip, murmuring _don’t tell Abby_ and okay, so maybe she won’t. But Patty’s definitely driving home, and getting on the phone as soon as this thing’s through to help her baby order more pills; maybe they can set up an automatic refill thing, alleviate some stress every month. And while they’re at it, one of those pill organizers wouldn’t hurt—yeah, one of the seven-day things, an emergency dose for the glove compartment just in case her girl forgets again. Shit happens and earlier panic aside, Patty’s not here to judge. Sure as hell the last thing Holtzy needs right now.

“I won’t.” Patty gives the promise, gentle as Holtzmann pulls into the space, except she overshoots and mounts the curb with a teeth-jarring thud that sends her scrabbling for the gear shift, trying to reverse but she’s stuck it in park and the engine revs like a pack of wolves, Holtzy tensing up on the wheel again while Patty suggests, hopefully. “Think it’s stuck in park baby, try one more time…?” 

Trying one more time entails an attempt at pulling back out into the street, narrowly missing another car zipping by and _lord_ , if Patty hears one more horn today she’s gonna develop an acute case of road rage—the engineer’s so on edge it’s sent her own pulse skyrocketing, finally slapping her grip over Holtzy’s on the gear shift because this is straight-up nonsense, and it seems to ground her baby long enough to _finally_ park the damn Ecto.

Hand warm on top of Holtzy’s, Patty watches her take a long, shaky breath before blinking up with that trademark sly grin, tension sliding right off her shoulders as she flexes, slipping back into her element like a duck to water. “Wouldn’t have pegged you for a top, Pats. I can work with that.” And then she motherfucking _winks_ , because apparently innuendo wears like a second skin to this girl, and Patty’s jumpy and wired and what-the-fuck, truth spilling out in a breathless laugh while her heart flings itself off a high-rise.

“Girl, I’m _flexible_.”

And Holtzmann’s laughing as she tears her hand away, folds her glasses into her pocket and drags those yellow goggles down over her face, bug-eyed but Patty’s the one staring as she pops the door, flies out into the rain.

Resigning herself to slogging through this bust soaked to the skin, Patty reaches over and yanks the keys out of the ignition, shoving them into her pocket and busting open her door to the downpour.

Holtzy’s already at the back of the car and the rain’s getting harder, the Ecto _still_ has a wheel half-up the goddamn curb and this call is feeling like a pretty solid clusterfuck. And even past all that Patty kind of wants to call Holtzmann on this flirting shit, ask her if she means it even while the engineer helps secure her pack—but the moment’s long gone and even if she wanted to shout over the tempest, that shit’s wildly inappropriate with Holtzy off her meds. Way wrong time for romance, no matter how many shitty films have played that confessions-in-the rain trope to death. Only one kind of wet she’s interested in, and it’s not rain—Patty ain’t about that life.

So she just gears up, helps Holtzy lock down her own and they pound back up the street, sloshing in the puddled sidewalk and Patty offers a light arm to hold if Holtzy wants it, under the guise of helping her keep up but really, she needs to keep her girl close. Rain or not, the pavement’s still crowded and when Holtzy’s feeling like this, better safe than sorry.

It’s only a few blocks but they’re panting by the time they make it back, falling under the overhang just inside the crime scene tape, and Holtzy’s dropping her hand, shaking her head like a dog as those soggy blonde curls drip. Abby’s off to the side, deep in conversation with a plain-clothes detective and Erin’s standing in the middle of it all like a useless spare part, exasperation flashing on her face when she spots them, jogging the few steps to close the distance and sounding incredulous.

“ _Did you guys get lost?_ Abby’s been talking with this detective about _soup,_ for _twenty. minutes_. They’ve already exchanged emails!”

They share a glance, Holtzy having slid into something infinitely more at ease now she’s out the rain and off the sidewalk, that swagger back in her step like nothing ever happened despite being practically cemented to Patty’s side, jerking a thumb and a grin upwards. “It’s this one. Backseat driver all over me.’’

And before Patty can even protest her girl’s tipping up a playful wink, bouncing off after Abby and she is, _lord_. A damn handful.

Erin’s sympathetic look feels par for the course, and Patty’s not going to spill about the forgotten meds, doesn’t even bother trying to explain when the physicist ventures, hopefully. “The police are ruling out ghosts, they found fingerprints on the murder weapon.”

Of _course_ they did. What a goddamn day.

A beat. “Everything okay with you two?”

“Yeah, we’re cool. Nothing a little dry-time won’t fix.”

No dryer in the world’s enough to tumble these feelings out of her, stuck on low-heat, endless repeat in a 24-hour laundromat that only plays 80s power ballads. Patty’s gonna run out of quarters soon.

 

***

 

Three days later and rain is _still_ pelting the second-floor window with a vengeance, giving Patty’s reading nook an even warmer glow with its bright little bankers desk lamp and coffee table candle; at this point, she’s embracing the weather with a warm blanket and Toni Morrison’s _Jazz._

It’s hard not to, when she’s got her feet tucked up beside her, mug of chai steaming and a scattering of vintage Halloween postcards on the coffee table, her only concession to Abby’s whirlwind holiday decorating that left the firehouse covered in paper ghosts and fake cobwebs—the latter strictly vetoed in Patty’s corner, because she can’t dust with that nonsense everywhere, and she’s got regular visitors now, gotta keep things tidy.

(“ _What do you guys think of a book club?_ ” She’d asked the collective, leant over the first-floor railing with a pile of battered old paperbacks snug to her chest, on her way upstairs post her most recent jaunt to the Strand. “ _For paranormal history, little-known facts about New York. Ghosts and spectres, you know_.”

Always first to encourage, Abby had championed her plan with no little enthusiasm, and the others looked up from what they were doing long enough to nod and murmur approval, with Kevin perking up at his desk like a 60-watt bulb. “ _Like Ultimate Frisbee, but for books! Sounds awesome_.”

Patty wasn’t even sure anyone remembered the conversation two weeks later, but she’d posted a notice on their official Ghostbusters home page, prepped her reading corner to perfection, and had even stocked up on fancy chocolates and assorted teas for the occasion. Starting with _Haunted New York City_ , a light and relatively fluffy introduction to the paranormal, proved a good pick as a short enough read for a solid turnout: all in all, eight guests ranging from a sixteen-year-old girl to a retired nurse, and an elderly Thai woman with a long list of book recommendations for Patty herself.

The discussion was excellent, the company informative, and perhaps most memorably, only a few minutes into the meeting Holtzmann wandered over from her lab, settling herself onto the rug at Patty’s feet without a word, gazing up to her with rapt attention despite never having opened the book.

And it was _fun_ : sharing her knowledge with people who want to know is rewarding in itself, and Patty’s counting the days till their next meeting—eight, she’s got her calendar marked in purple—but deep down, the person she wanted to impress most was the woman sat quietly shedding crumbs all over the rug, crunching on the sugar cookies set out for _guests_ and gazing up at her like she held the key to something _brilliant_.)

Speaking of, Holtzy’s just across the space working in her lab, twirling a soldering iron like a baton, with the sizzle of hot metal on an unintelligible mess of silver oblong shapes, and Patty watches for a few moments; curiosity’s plucking at her like a string before she tucks her nose back into the book with a sigh. Blinking up again at the clomp of Abby coming up the stairs, especially when the physicist turns around and shouts something back down to Erin that sounds like “ _You can be wrong, that’s just your opinion!_ ” on her way up.

“Hey, Holtzmann?”

Patty’s turning a page as Holtzy drifts her focus upwards, bug-eyed through yellow goggles and with a tail of smoke rising in her face. “ _Yeees_?”

“Do you know the current power output on my proton glove, just off the top of your head?”

“Ah—round about one-fifty amps with a hundred and twenty- _five_ thousand volts, give or take. Depends on the weather.” Holtzy straightens up from her slouch over the work, snapping her goggles to her forehead and deftly switching the soldering iron to her left hand without a glance, continuing her work even as she finishes the verbal report; apparently Holtzmann’s ambidextrous in _more_ than just wielding  dual pistols, and isn’t that _interesting._ “The recoil is probably _half_ of what it should be, 'cause I squeezed in a dampener.”

The ensuing silence as Abby ruminates on that has Holtzy’s lazily satisfied grin fade to something like concern, leaning in to touch her friend’s arm with a light hand. “Everything okay?” 

“Yeah, I’m fine, just,” Abby motions in the vague general direction of downstairs with a sighing eyeroll and a flapping hand. “ _Erin_.”

Holtzy raises brows which push the goggles even further up her forehead, comprehension settling with a sly tug at her lips. “Ah, _that_ old thing.” And Patty’s trying not to stare even as the engineer nudges Abby in the side with a _look_ , one that speaks volumes past the smirk and reminds Patty of nights spent giggling and tipsy on red wine, of knowing all your best friend’s secrets. “Big trouble in little Lesbos?”

There’s a smacking sound as Abby swats at Holtzmann, muttering “not like _that_ , we’re _not_ ” which melts into an unintelligible garble Patty can’t make out before she launches back with a clearer justification, scientist at work. “Just a disagreement about calculations. I’m right and she’ll get over it.”

Clearly not deterred by Abby’s deterring, Holtzy leans in further, chest almost on the tabletop and that chunky necklace dragging over whatever metal she’s working on with a clinking sound; neither of them are paying Patty any mind and she casually resettles in her seat, elbow leant against her knee as she watches in her periphery. Holtzmann nudges Abby’s shoulder with her nose, whispering something too low to hear and fuck eavesdropping, she wants to _know_ —especially when Abby pats at Holtzy’s wiry gloved wrist, tells her to _shush_ and Patty gnaws her lip, tries rereading the same paragraph for the fifth damn time (she still hasn’t gotten it).

Holtzy relents, but her tone is still smug, lazy as she switches tacks. “So, what else d’you need to know to win this argument?”

“That should be enough, although if you’ve got full specs I’ll take ‘em.” Holtzmann immediately leaps off her stool, beelining for the leaning tower of notebooks and papers stacked perilously against the wall, held up by unseen forces (Patty’s thinking maybe a soul-pact with gravity). Miraculously yanks the right one out, first try from the middle of the pile like scientific Jenga. There’s a pause and Abby sighs, pushing her glasses up her nose. “I’m ordering Zhu’s, you want anything?”

The engineer flips open to a sharpie-scribbled page full of calculations and notes, bringing it back to Abby and hopping back up on her stool. “I’ll _pass_. Still trying to forget last time’s ran _goons_.”

“Yeah, Benny really should have told us about that sewer grate.” Abby shrugs, with so little concern that Patty feels like maybe someone should be reporting this shit to Food and Safety, and also finding Abby a new takeout place that’ll deliver in this decade. Brand loyalty’s one thing, but there’s a world of difference between Air Jordans and tubs of weird-ass broth, and Patty’s already making a mental shortlist of even _subpar_ restaurants that’ll do a better egg drop soup.

“Patty, you hungry?”

She is _not_ , especially not after Holtzy’s helpful little aside and Patty pastes on her blandest expression, looking up from her book as if she’s not just been mentally yellow-paging every Chinese takeout in the five boroughs. “Hm? Nah. Thanks Abby, I’m good.”

Abby takes her refusal in stride with trademark optimism, tucking the notebook under her arm with a glance over the lab table, already brightening at another thought to their engineer. “Oh, there’s a box for you downstairs. Think it arrived in the same shipment as that copper wire, I had them put it by Kevin’s desk.”

The answering whoop of joy is restrained only by a chair spin edging on dangerous, Holtzy whirling on her stool and rubbing hands together like a super villain. “Ex _cellent._ Everything’s coming up Holtzmann!”

At this point in their friendship, understanding the nuclear pinball machine that is Holtzy’s weird and beautiful brain comes as a strange sort of bonus, but it’s sweet that Abby still casts a fond smile to Patty, translating with an almost proud sort of sigh. “She ordered _moon_ boots.”

Of course she did, because that’s _exactly_ what Holtzmann would do with her city-salary paycheck, and Patty just raises an eyebrow, shaking her head with a smirk she’s shoving back into her book. “Well, why stop there? Where’s your space shuttle?”

Holtzy perks up off her stool, slapping both hands on the table with a hoot of glee. “Pattycakes, you’re a genius! _Abby_ —I know what I want for Hanukkah.”

“Okey-dokey, remind me again in December.” Their resident Dr. Yates is pushing her glasses back up her nose, ponytail swaying as she motions with the notebook, heading past the couch. “Thanks for the notes, I’ll get ‘em back to you as soon as I trounce Erin.” And then, a sudden stop as she remembers: “Oh, Patty! I just booked our Uber for seven tomorrow night—you’ll be here by then, right?”

“Aw, thanks Abby. And yeah, I’m only takin’ a half-day, I’ll be around by two at the latest. Y’all gonna surprise me with cake?”

“Only if you tell us how old you _aaaare_ ,” Holtzy singsongs from across the room, back to her soldering iron and stabbing it in the air like a thoughtful finger.

“Babe, you know _way_ better than to ask a lady her age.”

Totally unfazed her girl shrugs, going back to whatever mess she’s playing at with a tragic sigh and wistful head-shake, like all of this could have been avoided. “ _No cake for you_.”

Abby taps her pen against the page, apparently engrossed in the text but she looks up long enough to roll eyes at Holtzmann, and aim Patty a reassuring smile on her way to the steps. “We’ll have cake.”

“Try to keep your _trouncing_ to a dull roar,” the engineer calls, dragging out the word like a purr as she tosses Abby a filthy wink, and the laughing physicist swipes a hand in her direction as she’s tromping down stairs, those round cheeks blush-pink and Patty’s suddenly suspicious as hell.

Turning over her shoulder as she waits for the muted conversation downstairs to resume, she’s watching Holtzy narrow goggled eyes at her creation with the sizzle of hot metal, fiddling with a stubborn part before finally setting aside the iron. Those toned forearms are streaked with soot and a couple of errant bruises, there’s a weird burn mark on her shirtsleeve, and a twisted clump of blonde caught under the rim of her goggles. She’s gnawing on that pink bottom lip like a chapstick commercial as she surveys her work, and Patty finally shakes herself out of stealth gazing, back on track with a promising hunch.

“Hey, Holtzy.” Patty tips her head towards the couch while the engineer perks up with meerkat-like attention, abandons her work and comes bounding over at the clandestine summons, skirting round the sofa and pushing up her goggles with a waggle of singed brows.

“You rang?” Bouncing onto the cushion beside her, Holtzy slaps her chunky combat boots up on the coffee table at the same time Patty pushes them back down with practiced ease; unperturbed by the ousting, her girl makes do in a slouch.

“You gonna tell me what _that_ was all about?”

Holtzmann’s hands are resting on her stomach with gloveless-fingers laced, aiming up a cheery neckless shrug in answer. “Abby needs specs on her glove to prove Erin wrong, terrible Chinese food is on its way, and I’m gonna walk on the _moon_ — _hey_ , you have chocolate!”

“Girl no, I _heard_ that—” Holtzy zips forward, reaches for a bulging handful of assorted squares from the bowl on Patty’s coffee table, settling back into her seat and beginning to tear into them, wrappers spread across her belly as Patty frowns. “—but Abby and Erin, they have a, _thing_ I don’t know about?”

Not looking up from her haul, already with a cheek full of chocolate. “Depends what you define as a _thing_.”

Okay, well Holtzmann’s clearly dragging this out for the hell of it, chomping on a mouthful of sea salt and caramel and Patty rolls her eyes, snagging a foil-wrapped truffle from the hoard piled into the creases of her girl’s threadbare NASA shirt. “Start from the beginning.”

“ _Well_ , first there was nothing, and then there was a _big bang—_ ”

“—Asking about ghost girls here, not the universe—”

Holtzy grins, chocolate on her teeth. “Abby’s a _girl_ and Erin’s a _girl_. Can I make it any more obvious?”

Alright, so Patty’s taking that as a _yes_ —Abby and Erin have _history_ , like the kind that involves getting naked and maybe a truckload of serious feelings—would explain a damn lot, actually. “They boned?”

Holtzmann nods a few times as she chews along, slipping her already unlaced boots off one by one, using the other foot to kick them onto the carpet before wiggling to face Patty on the sofa. Crossing her legs beneath herself like a kid, with empty wrappers and candy cascading into her lap. Her socks don’t match. “Hardcore. Gay epiphany. Life changing. Then Erin split like a sundae.”

“ _Oof_.” Patty can’t say she’s been there—every time in her life she’s gone out with a lady, she’s had enough smarts to avoid the straight girl out for a wild night—but as far as she understands it, Abby and Erin were just kids. “That’d take me awhile to get over, I don’t forget shit like that.”

The engineer’s brow creases, looks like she wants to say—ask—something else maybe, but she reclines on the back of the couch instead, propping that sharp chin in a hand with a pensive sigh. “Neither did Abby.”

Patty frowns at the quiet reveal because Holtzy’s only _sparingly_ this serious, settling back against the arm of her sofa and chewing thoughtfully on her truffle. “She okay?”

“ _Now_. Not for a long time after. Think Erin showing up forced her to confront it all again.”

And that’s more than Patty knew: she’s got a good sense about people, can usually taste the tension in the conversation and clue in pretty damn quick to the crossed lines around a room, but when she joined this crazy club, this shit was… already happening, apparently. “So, back on again? Or does Erin still got her head wrapped around Kevin’s pecs?”

Holtzmann flings her forearms up in a lost shrug, pitching down her voice like a nature documentary narrator. “ _Will we ever know?_ Erin’s the Usain Bolt of no-homo. In so deep she’s hanging out with Mr. Tumnus; just happens that Abby’s got the wardrobe door open trying to tempt her back _out_.”

The comparison makes Patty snort around her chocolate. “Sounds like she’s not doing a whole lotta tempting, if you bringin’ it up earned you a _shush_.”

Holtzy curls up a smirk, playing with her fingers and slanting a smug look. “Yeah well, she likes the status quo. I’d prefer the status _queer_.”

Big fucking surprise there, and Patty bites away her grin, snagging another chocolate off Holtzmann’s lap and trying not to focus on _Holtzmann’s lap_ , because that’s a little too _status queer_ for this current thing she’s got going; the one where she thinks about Holtzy an awful lot but says nothing about it in real life. It’s working really well so far, Patty thinks she’ll keep it up. “Baby, you sure they’re meant for each other, like that?”

Her girl just shrugs again around a mouthful of raspberry filling, pocketing the mass of chocolate in her cheek before concluding, simply. “They’re happier, togeth _er_.”

She rolls out the last syllable like a red carpet and Patty can only quirk a brow, because their engineer is… observant. And has clearly been spending some thesis-level thought on this mental plane, specifically. Which is… interesting.

“What if it goes wrong? Might make it weird. I had an on-again, off-again thing with a girl in college, we ended up working at the same bookstore for awhile after we broke it off and that shit was so _whack_ , I ended up quitting after a month.” Patty unwraps the square, biting into a corner and tasting crème de menthe. It’s already melting in her hand, and she wishes she didn’t sound so goddamn _pessimistic_ but she’s been there, done that. It ain’t fun.

“And I mean, Abby and Erin are best friends. They been wanting this ghost gig since they were kids. Probably feels safe to just leave it at that, don’t wanna fuck it up, yanno?”

There’s an almost too-long pause beside her. “Yeah. Even if one of them wants it.”

Patty looks up from a cocoa-smeared thumb to her baby slowly unwrapping a chocolate, her hollow-sounding words bouncing around Patty’s skull like a balloon hissing out air, and for just a moment she wonders if that’s where she and Holtzy are, or could be— _don’t want to fuck it up. Even if one of them wants it._

And she does, she wants it _so bad_ but hell, that’s the case in point right there. Patty’s shoving the foil wrapper under her thumbnail, lips pursed as she gusts out, disinclined to add more lest she reveal herself. “Yeah.” The mouthful of chocolate and mint seems suddenly too much, and Patty mumbles around it, eager to get back to someone else’s problems. “Maybe just give ‘em some time and they’ll figure it out.”

Holtzy’s rolling her eyes with a throaty chuckle, back to sporting a grin worthy of the jack-o-lantern they haven’t carved yet. “It’s _glacial_ pace. We should set them up. Full on Lady and the Tramp ‘em.”

“Uh-uh, that is not— _no_. They wanna be glaciers, let ‘em. I’d rather have that than a repeat of how bummed Abby was when Erin split again.”

Holtzmann gusts a dramatic sigh at the rebuff but shakes it off, flicking her focus back down to where Patty’s crinkling her empty wrappers with a crafty smirk.

“ _So_ , this bookstore _girl_. Need me to send the boys round?” She knocks  her clenched fists together, tongue peeking out through the side of her teeth in a dogged grin like she’s spoiling for a brawl, Patty wouldn’t be surprised.

“Nah baby, that was a long time ago. I’m way over it, wasn’t a big thing.” There’s a tiny traitorous thought in the back of her head, and Patty wonders if maybe, _maybe_ she’s jealous—so she adds, feeling out for her baby’s reaction with an easy shrug. “Started seeing a dude for awhile after that, he bought me a lot of books, so. Fair trade.”

And Holtzy doesn’t disappoint, that detail earns her a nose wrinkle and a slanted brow. “Second edition, re _bound._ ”

Patty smirks. “He _was_ but I got a full bookshelf now, and no man to worry about. Dream life.”

“A _men_. Or _no-men,_ as the case should be.” Flashing a sly grin, Holtzy scoops up a few of the shredded wrappers littered about her person and the sofa, dropping the ones in hand back into the candy dish as if they belong there and brushing a lazy hand over Patty’s shoulder as she passes, dipping into an old gangster accent like she’s Public Enemy No.1 and fucking _knows_ it. “Thanks for the sweets, _doll_.”

“Hey, don’t leave those here—” And Patty’s trying to ignore the electric twist of Holtzy’s fingers through her hoodie because she’s got principles, _dammit_ , eating up the sight of her girl swaggering those jodhpur-clad curves right outta her reading nook. “Hey, Buzz Lightyear! Moonwalk your ass back here and get your trash.”

Holtzmann spins around but keeps strolling backwards at her lab, actually starts moonwalking (and she’s no MJ but hey, baby girl’s got some _moves_ ) even as she flings out an arm, tugging down her goggles with the other. “ _Years_ of academy training, _wasted_!”

Girl’s got more ham than a goddamn deli and Patty’s muttering to herself after that performance, squashing down a grin to pick out the empty wrappers cos she’s gonna leave ‘em on Holtzy’s worktop later. Fair’s fair. “Last time I let you steal my chocolate.”

Even as she says it, Patty knows it’s a lie.

 

***

 

The morning of her birthday dawns clear and bright, and a half day at work means that Patty takes her sweet time getting up, sleeping well past her alarm and puttering into her tiny kitchen long after rush hour. The sun’s streaming through the window and birds are singing outside as she runs fingers through her short, spiky hair and thinks maybe she’ll keep it like this, her head feels lighter.

After coffee she throws on her cutest new heels and hops the train uptown to Brooklyn Heights, grinning up at the cloudless sky above with her new pink clutch tucked safe under one arm. Lunch with her childhood friend Letta means three glasses of red wine and birthday tiramisu; they talk about Patty’s new job with the ghost girls, exes, and that time in high school that they cut class to hang out in the library stacks and read the new Wonder Woman comics. They talk about Letta’s boyfriend and his daughter, and the new episodes of Timeless they’ve caught up on. Patty doesn’t tell her about Holtzmann. She doesn’t even know where to start.

Letta foots the bill and gives her a crushing hug outside the café, parting with promises of again soon before Patty’s back on the subway, watching her city flash by in stations before spilling out at Franklin Street; she may pay her rent in Brooklyn, but Tribeca’s starting to feel like home.

The firehouse is locked so she uses her key from Abby, lets herself in to an empty lobby, no Kevin in sight—not so odd, boy tends to wander—but the entire place is quiet, and Patty climbs the stairs to a deserted lab, gives a cursory look around before heading for the third floor. She’s toying with a thought as she mounts the steps and turns out she’s right, because the minute she reaches the kitchen there’s a chorus of “ _SURPRISE!_ ” from three Ghostbusters and their receptionist, and Patty jumps like she hasn’t been expecting it, laughing and clapping her hands as she’s swept into an Abby-sized hug.

“Y’all got me, oh man!”

There’s cake and a dozen balloons, Holtzy’s tied one to the back of her vest and it’s bobbing along after her like an obedient little shadow. Kevin’s made an army of ghost-shaped cookies with tiny icing faces, which prove not only edible, but _shockingly_ delicious—“My mum’s recipe,” he states proudly, passing the plate after taking five of them, and smiling through a mouthful of crumbs. “I thought; you four like _ghosts_. So I made the cookies, into ghosts!”

Erin’s first out of the gate with a perfectly wrapped rectangle that turns out to be a first edition of James Van Der Zee’s _Harlem Book of the Dead_ ; Patty’s already choking up as Erin explains, “I found it online, but it’s really from all of us!” Translation: Erin probably paid for the thing in its entirety, and Patty curls her in a painfully tight hug because it’s one of the most thoughtful gifts she’s ever been given. Not to mention the intersection of a lot of her interests, and she’s swiping wet out of her eyes with a hand.

“Darlin’, I couldn’t ask for anything more—thanks, guys.”

From Abby, an oversize tee with their no-ghost logo on the back, and Patty’s howling at the sight of _We Came, We Saw, We Kicked Its Ass_ in dripping green letters on the front. “A _hah_ , no way!”

Abby chimes in, grinning up a storm. “They’re all over the internet, you should see the size of our fanbase!”

“I’m wearin’ this to bed tonight, just so y’all know.”

Holtzy hands her an envelope with a bashful sort of cheeseball grin, shuffling from foot to foot as Patty carefully slits it open with one scarlet nail. The card’s in the shape of a pizza slice with oversize googly eyes and a pepperoni smile, proclaiming _I love you to pizzas_ on the front and Patty laughs, tries not to read it as anything more than a goofy greeting card right up her girl’s alley of adorably weird, endearingly off-beat.

Except then she opens it up to a lovingly detailed scribble of Holtzmann as a stick figure right under the standard printed birthday message, complete with wild curlicues of hair and goggles. She’s got a propane torch in her grip and a sketched-out Patty’s hand in the other, Holtzy’s doodled her a cute skirt and a tall crown to make up for the fact that their figures are nearly the same height.

“It’s not to scale, _obviously_ ,” Holtzmann allows, biting the head off a phantom cookie and Patty’s chest feels so full, what the _hell_ is this girl doing to her; the tiny scrawled _Holtzmann_ under her artwork is enough to send Patty’s heart thumping like a garage band.

“Obviously,” she echoes with a fond chuckle, and then, because it’s the truth. “I like my crown.”

“It likes you,” Holtzy smirks around a bite, skirting out of the way as Abby thumps down a thick, gooey slice of triple chocolate cake with a happy singsong of _caaaaake!_ and as Patty lifts her fork, she wonders if she’s got room for it between all the butterflies.

 

***

 

Patty’s just smudging her lipstick under the warm glow of lights in the second-floor bathroom, pursing cherry-red lips in a foxy kiss at her reflection—because a girl’s gotta love herself first, and tonight she looks _bangin’_. She can hear Abby upstairs, that cheery voice floating down from the bedroom where she’s helping Erin with her hair, and Patty could have stayed but after her chat with Holtzy yesterday, giving her ghost girls maybe some time alone seemed like a good idea. Let ‘em think about something besides work for a change, like each other.

The bashful rumble of a cleared throat sounds from the open doorway, and when she turns for a glance Patty’s knocked right off her feet, kisses every other thought in her head goodbye: to hell with birthday cake, Holtzmann’s standing there and she looks goddamn _gourmet_.

That wispy blonde hair swept back in a coif that’d make Cary Grant cry, crisp navy trousers with turned-up cuffs and a waistcoat that slides down those sharp curves like _butter_ , oxford shirt like a cloudless day with those sleeves rolled up to the nines and she’s _everything_ Patty never knew she wanted; like god _damn_. And somewhere deep down common sense and overall general tact is telling her to _stop fucking staring_ , but it’s her birthday and Holtzy’s bowtie is covered in tiny blue rockets and there’s something brilliant and selfish in her gut that whispers _you’ve earned this_. So Patty does, eating up the view like she’s starving and flashing her girl a grin, tilting a hip against the sink and blowing out a low whistle of appreciation because she _does_ , appreciate. “Oh, _baby_ … you clean up nice.” 

And honesty is definitely the best policy here, because at the praise Holtzy’s gaze goes soft and heavy-lidded behind her yellow lenses, curling up those pink lips as she shakes off the compliment with a smirk that looks the way a lit fuse must feel, propping an elbow against the doorway to look Patty up and down, the sentiment returned as an awed exhale.

“…Can I borrow you a sec?”

Can she ever, and Patty’s still grinning as she abandons her makeup bag, sweeps through the door hot on Holtzy’s wing-tipped heels and feeling _fine_. “Sure baby, what’s up?”

“Just a little somethin’ I made. ’specially for you.”

And hell, if that doesn’t start a swarm of flutters rising from the depths of her stomach, matching her girl’s toothy grin from the top of the steps and reliving the thrill from earlier, when she opened the card to a scribbly drawing of their two stick figures holding hands and _Patty you’re too damn old for this, fucking BREATHE_ —Patty Tolan _is_ too old for this, but she’s also gone gone _gone_ , and she doesn’t even care.

Following Holtzmann all the way downstairs, past Kevin shaving into the reflection of a spoon at his desk—and _who in hell gave that boy a sharp thing_ is probably not even worth asking, but she can wonder—through the front door, and she’s striding after Holtzy in four-inch heels and _just_ starting to think that maybe she should have specified the terms of this borrow, because these ain’t exactly her busting shoes.

Patty says as much and Holtzy only chuckles, cryptic and low in her throat like a promise as she leads them round the side of the firehouse and into the dim alleyway, the thin slice of sky above already streaked with purple, and a bevy of moths swarming the alley’s single floodlight. The engineer treks them just beneath it, halting beside the rickety folding table with a wild flourish and grinning as Patty’s heels echo on the asphalt, reaching for the cloth draped haphazardly over the top as she smirks.

“I didn’t give this to you earlier; don’t want complaints of favouritism in the ranks, _but—_ ”

Holtzmann whips off the cover to a _big goddamn gun_ , it looks like a grenade launcher fucked a bazooka, plated in shiny chrome with a scorched-looking trigger piece, long scope and a padded chest strap trailing from end to end, warning the same _HIGH VOLTAGE_ as the one on Holtzy’s duffle. There’s a big red bow stuck carefully on top like the finishing touch and it’s so wonderfully, absurdly _huge_ that the sight of it warms Patty’s insides like a space heater, staring at her gift with wide eyes as she blinks. “Shit, that’s for _me_?”

“Custom-made _for_ _you_.” Holtzy’s got her hands on her hips, kicking a stray can across the quiet alleyway with an overbite of a grin, head cocked as she aims finger guns with a cheesy wink. “Give it a whirl, girl!”

 _Shit,_ Patty doesn’t need telling twice: she’s crossing to the table in two tall strides, scooping up the piece and it’s lighter than it looks, solid but easy to heft in her arms, running her hands up the barrel and feeling the scuff marks on the cool metal, slowly heating beneath her hands. “Baby, _this is_ …”

Holtzy picks up the thread where she trails off, bright eyes shining under the floodlight as she gazes up to Patty, reaching up to fluff her hair, rub the back of her neck with a pleased grin. “Automatic grenade gun. I know they’re your weapon of choice, thought it was time to take this to the next level.”

Holy shit. And no offense to Erin, but all the first editions in the world couldn’t give her the same _thrill_ that’s flooding her veins as she tucks the stock against her shoulder; Patty never cared about firing a gun before this job but Holtzy’s changed her landscape like a natural disaster.

And when she steals a glance to the engineer at her side, that tinted gaze is radiating something _brilliant_ , watching Patty with a delighted, expectant wonder that sends her confidence skyrocketing—strutting a few steps down the alley and cocking her hip in a stance, Patty _knows_ she looks damn fine and fucking feels it, flitting a coy smirk over one shoulder.

“Anything else I should know before I pull the trigger?” There’s a cardboard ghost propped up in front of a cluster of metal garbage cans, and Patty lines up the scope between its painted eyes, bracing her weight in her heels on the asphalt and hoping to hell the recoil doesn’t knock her on her ass.

“Nope.” Holtzy aims her a devilish grin, fluttering two of her digits in the air like the most lesbian come-hither and _god_. “It’s all in the fingers.”

Of fucking course it is, except Patty’s hands are shaking like an addict and she bites her lip, narrows her gaze at the unobtrusive little ghost because it’s showtime. Aims the barrel at him and sucks in a deep breath, curling two fingers around the trigger and steeling herself for the kickback. And, _fire_ —

The impact slams her shoulder but it’s barely worth a mention as the grenade soars right into the ghost’s face, blast detonating in a shock of orange and blue. Metal cans scatter across the alley like over-sized bowling pins, Holtzy’s yelling _BOOM!_ at the top of her lungs and Patty’s laughing, gasping as she rests the stock on her hip, hands still trembling but it’s the adrenaline, _holy shit_ she’s high as _fuck_. Heart doing double-time because the girl she loves just built her a gun, and Patty’s pretty sure the phrase “stranger than fiction” was custom-made for her too.

And when she turns around to look Holtzy’s staring at her with fever-bright joy, like it’s her own damn birthday instead, elation glinting off her yellow lenses when Patty sparks a grin, cradles the smoking metal to her chest and it’s already warm, she’s warm all over. “Baby, you outdid yourself. I _love_ it.”

Holtzmann just grins, soft and proud and nudges her glasses back up her nose from where they’ve slid before jamming hands in her pockets again, dancing a few twirling steps of celebration in her fancy wingtips; Patty’s struck by the urge to pull her close, whisper just _how_ much she loves her gift in her baby’s ear. Run hands up her hips, the crisp lines of her waistcoat and kiss the breath whooshing past Holtzy’s soft lips, see if she tastes like danger and the half-dozen ghost cookies she was scarfing earlier.

Instead she just slings her gun over one shoulder, beams back because Patty may be a coward, but she’s a _happy_ one. And the sudden shout from the end of alley arrives just in time, Abby there waving her arms from the sidewalk like air traffic control and saving Patty from herself, from saying anything she’ll regret later. “ _Guys, our Uber’s here!_ ”

They’re walking back as Holtzy pokes a finger at her swaying creation, sliding Patty a smirk like it’s her number on a napkin. “Too bad you can’t bring it to the club. It’d liven up the dance floor.”

And Patty can’t let a challenge like that go without a fight, strutting up the alley with her girl and feeling like a million damn bucks as she promises, flashing the sexiest grin in her arsenal. “Baby girl, I can do that _all by myself_.”

 

***

 

The club is loud and _packed_ and everything Patty imagined in a birthday outing; she’s always been a woman who loves her books and her quiet but when she goes out, she wants to go _off_ —and this is _perfect_ , shaking her way to the dance floor with a vodka sunrise in hand and dolled-up ghost girls in tow, the DJ up front dropping Nicki Minaj’s latest beat from the speakers and Patty’s ready to fucking _dance_.

“ _Yo, it’s my birthday_!” The floor’s jam-packed and she loves it, loves the thrill of too many bodies crammed close together under pulsing lights and a thudding baseline, she can feel it in her chest as she slurps another sip through her straw, alcohol burning all the way down and it’s too warm in here already. Abby’s fanning herself with the hand not cradling her beer and shouting _wow, this place is really happening_ as Kevin slides past, already pumping his hips at the air and sliding right into the multicoloured surging crowd with a farewell wave, melting into the throng.

“Well, there goes Kevin.” Erin’s observation from behind sounds more sad than anything, and Patty ain’t having pining at her party, twirling around because that’s some _bullshit_ and she’s pointing at her friend’s appletini in hand, the thing looks untouched and that’s a straight-up crime.

“Erin, drink up—” And here she punctuates the warning with another swig of grenadine and vodka, feeling her grin slide into place as she teases, floating her arms up to the flashing lights overhead and letting the music take over. “—or I’m gonna make you take shots with me, and _you’ll regret it._ ”

Cue Holtzy materializing from where she’s been nursing her beer and bobbing her head behind Abby, bouncing on her heels and hollering _SHOTS SHOTS SHOTS_ as she sloshes Guinness everywhere and _jesus, who raised you_ is all Patty can think, throwing her head back to laugh and gulp down another sip of booze, because even with foam in her hair Holtzmann’s still looking fine as fuck, and Patty’s not. Not even _close_ to drunk enough for this.

She’s a quick study though, making it through her drink and the next two tracks with swaying hips and a hold on the beat, sinking into it and she’s _way_ past the days of doing this on the regular, but birthdays only come once a year and this is the best one Patty’s had in an _age_ , she’s making up for lost time. And it feels so damn _good_ to dance, to lose yourself in the sweaty crush of humanity and she’s always loved this, it’s even better with _people_ she loves—Abby and Erin are laughing, twirling each other in a swinging white-girl shuffle that has no business being paired with the Usher remix blasting from the speakers, but they’re cute as hell anyway. Patty wants to freeze frame the pulse of purple lights on Erin’s hair, the cheery scrunch of Abby’s forehead as she runs into a random guy behind them and loses her glasses down her nose.

Kevin resurfaces from the crowd long enough to come grinding up behind them with another round for everyone, and it’s the nicest thing Patty thinks he’s ever done even though the drinks are all wrong, but it’s sweet that he tried. Swiping the tallest and bluest option off the tray and blowing him an air kiss as she downs it in one, Patty’s tasting coconut and pineapple and rum, probably rum—her head’s already buzzing, she’s soaring into that lovely tipsy headspace of not quite drunk, but rapidly approaching cruising altitude.

And Holtzmann; _god_ Holtzy, Patty’s trying not to stare but _Holtzmann_ , who’s been MIA for a while previous but is marking out her own space on the floor, busting moves to every era this DJ’s throwing out, Patty’s seen her dance but this is _different_. Now she’s nudging into Patty’s side, grinning like the room’s on fire and showing off the knotted cherry stem between her teeth, plucked out of Abby’s drink and Patty’s trying, trying _so damn hard_ not to think about the talented tongue behind her smirk, and she’s failing like a freshman in fucking calc.

The press and sway of bodies in the space, the nearness of her girls and the drink sloshing in her skull is _electric_ , the beat is thudding in her chest and watching Holtzy loosen the button on her collar, everything in her’s turned up to eleven _at least_. Patty wants to touch, _be_ touched but she’s got sense enough to break away, grab another coconut-rum _thing_ that tastes like magic in a cocktail, wading back into the crowd with her blue booze and a wide-eyed whoop because the Pussycat Dolls are crooning _girl, you already know_ , and Patty _does_. “This my jam ladies _, this is my SHIT_!”

Three drinks later and Kevin’s apparently a god of rhythm who knows the entire “Single Ladies” choreography better than maybe Queen Bey herself, and Abby’s already tried break dancing twice (badly, _so badly_ Patty’s embarrassed for her, but she’s having too much fun laughing and recording her for snapchat to get her to stop), and. The room is louder and hazier and the lights are _so_ bright, sparkling green and blue and purple in a dizzying swirl that makes Patty want to let go, hands to the sky, she _loves_ everyone here, loves this _whole fucking city_. She loves her goddamn job and being here, in this moment— _this_ is what she was meant for, this is why she’s alive, _right now_. Right the fuck now, because Patty Tolan’s not just studying history—she’s _making it_.

Time slips through her fingers like sand and she’s too busy dancing to care, barely noticing when Abby and Erin stumble off towards the bar, Patty’s found her sweet spot of sailing under the influence, feet still steady but she’s trippin’ on the beat and it feels so _good_. Patty’s her own private island on a crowded floor, soaking up the shade of a dimly-lit club like it’s her paradise.

The song blurs into another, something slower and she slides a lazy glance aside to her left, there’s couples all up on each other around, but Patty’s got eyes for none of them when she looks over her shoulder and _gasps_ , mouth falling open in a stare. The world’s blurring at the edges, and she can’t think of anything beyond a soft breath, _wow_.

Because Holtzmann’s there, Holtzy's _dancing_ , winding a long, sinuous curve to the sky, reaching for the stars with none of her usual graceless flailing, not a trace of that jerky blow-torch shimmy. And she’s reaching down to tug her bowtie loose, carving out a space on the dance floor because she's _in it_ ; a Class VII demon couldn’t tear her away now. And Patty can only watch, and ride the high of it because Holtzy's _dancing_ , grinding the air like she's in love and she's tugging fingers through her soft hair, pink mouth open, running hands down herself like she's dying to be touched, and _god_ , if this ain't seduction Patty can't say what is. 

But she wants it to be. Oh, she _wants_.

Her stomach’s twisting with the deep thudding bass beat, it’s echoing in her chest as the breathy vocals pull her down into the fray, Patty’s hips rolling with the flow and she's dragged there before she realises it; taking Holtzy's offered hand as the engineer looks up to her through heavy-lidded eyes, lashes fluttering and mouth open, tie swinging loose at her throat and she looks like _sex_ , like every single one of Patty's fantasies come to life and they’re _alone_ , alone in the middle of a crowded floor because no one else is looking. 

Patty’s letting the music carry her, heart pounding even as she glides, rides the rhythm right into her baby’s space, because Abby and Erin are gone and even Kevin’s vanished, and Patty’s too drunk to keep up this charade, thank _fuck_. They’re _so_ close now, when she tilts her pelvis she brushes up against Holtzy’s waist, eyes locked and what little sobriety remains in her is shrieking panic but Patty reaches out anyway, hands weaving, caressing the air outside Holtzmann’s swaying hips, not touching but  _wanting_ to, teasing herself… teasing _Holtzy_ , who’s sliding her hands over Patty’s with a too-warm touch, it sends sparks up her skin that tingle, and burn like stardust.

Patty wants to say something, wants to ask _is this okay_ but for all of their eye contact, of her big browns all over Holtzy’s tinted blues she can’t find the words, licking her lips instead. And maybe Holtzy likes what she sees, because she’s swaying _closer_ , those deft hands flitting to Patty’s waist, fingers dragging over the tight red fabric as she bites that soft bottom lip, slow and smirking and _oh my god_ , Patty’s grinding closer, desperate for more. Her knees are weak and it’s not just the alcohol, this is real and what she’s been dying for, for _months_ …

The lacy red thong under her dress is soaking _wet_ , Patty can feel it rubbing against her thighs and _fuck_ , fuck; if she had it her way, she’d be dragging her girl’s hands right up her skirt, tasting those lips _so close_ , she can feel the heat of Holtzy’s breath on her skin and it’s driving her _wild_.

She’s at least a full goddamn foot taller than Holtzmann in these heels but they’re making it work, knees bent and her stomach’s taut with nerves and lust, swivel in her hips as she pulls closer, thrill coiling in her like the pulse of a live wire, _electrifying_. And Holtzy’s curling her arms up, forearms resting lightly around Patty’s neck like maybe she belongs here, if only she’s allowed to stay—and _christ, yes_ , this is all she fucking needs, for the rest of forever, maybe. Holtzy’s eyes on hers, and Patty’s hands curving to hold her sharp hips as they move together, grinding into the longing rhythm of a song she doesn’t know but _will_ after this, will hear it echoed in her fantasies till the end of fucking time; it feels like sweat and skin and the way her dress is riding up her thighs as Holtzy rubs against her front, _fuck_ …

And all the while those hungry eyes are on hers, heavy lashes fluttering behind her lenses and Patty’s in _heaven_ , Holtzy’s rolling into her hands and Patty’s letting them slide to the rise of her (so _tight_ , holy _fuck_ ) ass, cupping her through thin trousers and tugging her closer, needing her baby and not caring who sees, because Holtzy’s taking her _to the fucking stars_. Purple lights are shimmering overhead and playing over their hot skin, the gap in her girl’s open collar teasing her gaze _down_ , down, and the song is ending but Holtzy’s sliding in, pushing up on her toes and Patty’s heart is _losing its shit_ because, oh, _okay_ she’s pushing lips at her ear, that’s good _too_ —

“ _Pats, let me buy you a birthday drink_ ,” and god _yes_ , Patty’s down with that. Holtzmann’s warm breath is lingering on her throat in the space between songs like a sloppy kiss and she’s curling a hand around Patty’s wrist, tugging her towards the bar and she goes willingly, would follow Jillian Holtzmann to the goddamn moon at this point. Her head’s spinning like the inside of a centrifuge as she laughs, giddy as hell when she trips after her, heart thudding.

“Wait, you’re payin’ for _me_? It _must_ be my birthday.”

Holtzy only flashes a fever-bright grin over one shoulder and loosens her grip, sliding forward to prop both elbows on the edge of the bar with her ass sticking out; Patty _aches_ to touch again but settles for a lengthy caress with her gaze instead, vowing _later_ to that pert little backside. Falling into place beside her girl, who’s waving two fingers at the bartender. “Shot of Jack each.”

Then the engineer’s slapping down a crumpled ten on the bar, eyes lit as she takes up the shot glasses, passing one to Patty and drawling, ceremoniously holding up a swaying arm. “To _you_ , Patricia—and another year of looking _fine_ as _fuck_.”

Holtzy punctuates that _fuck_ with a clink of their shots and knocks hers back but Patty’s staring at the long, lean lines of her throat as she swallows, mesmerized—and yeah she’s sloshed, but this mess of need was here long before the booze and she’s downing her own, it tastes like fire burning a hole through her chest, and Holtzy thinks she’s _fine_.

Shot gone Patty finally comes up for air, gasping “ _Thanks, baby_ ,” as Holtzy laughs, the world is spinning again but it’s warm and _perfect_ , everything is fucking awesome and she never wants this night to end, that’s her birthday wish—except the universe maybe wasn’t listening, because that’s the moment a voice at her other elbow furrows Holtzy’s brow and Patty blinks, swerving her bleary gaze to meet it and _way_ wrong decision, her head feels like the ball at a damn Knicks game.

“Hey, can I buy you a drink?”

Some guy—and Patty can’t tell if he’s attractive or not, because everyone else sort of pales in comparison to her girl and also she’s _really_ fucking drunk; he’s either a solid 8, or maybe a 3—is leaning casually against the bar, smiling at them and Patty sighs, because can’t he see she’s _busy_ trying to get laid and this is just. Fucking typical.

Except all of that clarity doesn’t really escape her mouth, she sort of just waves a hand in the general direction of herself and Holtzy, feeling like her brain is astral projecting into the vicinity of too much booze, _not enough sex_ and please _dude, just go away_ ; this is too much for her queer ass to handle right now because she’s trashed as fuck. “Uh—thanks man, but ‘m actually, pretty good here—”

“— _yeah_ , and she’s _with_ _me_.” And there’s the crushing warmth of an arm suddenly curling round her ribs, Holtzy poking her head out over the bar behind Patty’s arm and she’s blinking down, dizzy smile curling up her face at the sight of her girl’s stony expression; it’s not aimed at her so it’s _nice_. Completely forgetting the reason for it, actually, Patty’s reaching down, nudging a wayward curl off her baby’s forehead and tucking it back into her frazzled coif, touched at the gesture and how goddamn _soft_ Holtzy’s hair feels, _wow_. Maybe she’ll let her play with it when they get back to her place, because Patty wants to take her home, wants to kiss her all over. Draw her a hot bath, cuddle, _fuck_ somewhere in between…

It takes awhile for Holtzmann to relinquish that grim expression and tilt her chin up towards Patty but she’s patient, is waiting for her baby with a fond grin, hazy thoughts a swirl of messy, heady affection for this woman, who’s blinking up to her with those pretty blue eyes and she _wants_. Wants to tell Holtzy how much she cares, how much she _wants_ … but all that comes out is a low, awed “ _Baby_ ,” and Holtzy’s gaze turns soft, like she already knows all the words Patty’s lips can’t say, and she likes the sound of them. And Patty’s leaning in closer, heart hammering because _yes_ —

“ _Hey, ladies_!”

 _Goddammit_ , the universe is really, _really_ sending Patty some mixed fucking signals because Abby’s suddenly bumping into them, red-cheeked from the booze and swaying as she motions wildly to Erin at her side, who’s got her glittery heels looped over one finger like a cheap prom date. “I know it’s still early, but we were dancing and some jerk spilled his Corona all over Erin—” 

“It’s in my bra,” Erin adds miserably, beer dripping off the end of her nose as she scrubs at her face with a hand, and Patty bites her lip when that warm arm around her waist slides away, Holtzy turning to survey the pair with a quirked brow.

“—and I already paid out our tab, so you girls mind if we head home?”

Patty spares a brief, sympathetic look for their soggy particle physicist, but if the dynamic duo wants to head home that’s _perfectly_ fine by her: she’ll just stay here with Holtzy, they can always uber back to Brooklyn and just tell Abby they stayed out, hopefully she won’t wait up.

Except Holtzmann’s suddenly pushing up from her slouch at the bar, nodding as she reaches to loop her arm easily in Patty’s, and _oh_. “Yeah, let’s go.”

They’re stumbling out of the pounding club and onto the sidewalk, and the gust of cold air is a shock to Patty’s system, instantly more alert and tightening her arm in Holtzy’s as Abby waves at the street, flagging down a yellow taxi with a moaning Erin in tow. Piling into the waiting cab like sardines, Patty and Holtzy and Abby then Erin, crammed into the backseat with the heater blasting and this isn’t exactly what she’d imagined; when she tips down her chin to steal a glance, Holtzy’s tinted glasses are fogging up and Patty can feel her skirt riding up her thighs, but they’re too _close_ for her to do a damn thing about it.

“Guys, did you see the _size_ of that fishbowl when we walked in?” And Abby’s chattering away, praising the club and their drinks but Patty’s only got eyes for the petite engineer shoved up against her side, stomach full of flutters as she drifts her fingers to graze the hand resting on Holtzy’s thigh—wanting to pick up where they’d left off at the bar, and her head’s still fuzzy but Patty _knows_ what she wants, _who_ she wants. She’s never been more sure.

And when Holtzy nudges her pinky to Patty’s, it sends her engine revving from zero to sixty, enough that she sucks in a breath and blinks around the full cab, eager to take the focus off herself and the block-size blush creeping up her chest. “Yo, where’s Kevin?”

“Oh, when we were sat at the table he came by with this guy who looked like Spartacus, said he was going home with him and he’d see us Thursday,” Abby explains cheerfully and Erin beside her groans, head down and sounding sick as Abby rubs absently at her back. “Sorry we had to leave early, Patty—but you had fun, right?”

“Hell _yeah_ , best birthday ever!” And she fucking means it, especially considering that it’s not over yet—and maybe it’s that last shot talking, but this really is the _best_ damn birthday Patty can remember because she’s still drunk, and _stupidly_ in love. Everything is _perfect_.

Abby’s grinning, reaching over Holtzy to nudge Patty’s arm, sharing excitedly, still pink-cheeked even in the dim light of the backseat. “I wasn’t going to tell you earlier, but Erin and I figured out how to put tonight on expenses—even the cab, so—”

“Happy birthday Patty, from the city of New York!” Holtzmann wrestles her elbow out from beneath Abby’s and mimes raising a glass, grinning as she flicks a gaze up through those lashes, streetlights glinting off her lenses but there’s something private, knowing in Holtzy’s smirk that _tugs_ at her insides—something only for Patty that promises _more later_ , when they’re not crammed into a cab with their fellow ‘busters, and Erin’s not rolled the window down to keep from getting carsick.

And so when Abby goes back to talking, Patty carefully tunes her out and looks down to the blonde fluff nearly resting on her shoulder, murmuring low as she nudges her ankle against her baby’s, stretched out beneath their driver’s seat. “ _Holtzy_.”

“ _Pats_.” There’s a pause, and then her baby’s sliding a hand over her thigh, warm and brushing lightly where her skirt’s slid up; those fingers feel like _magic_ on her hot skin, and Patty’s heart’s jumped into her throat, _fuck_ , _please_ …

But they can’t, not with Abby and Erin stuffed into the seat beside them, and the engineer’s fingers stroke lightly at her skin before she draws them away, tilting up a quiet, sly smile that jumpstarts the _thud_ in Patty’s chest. “ _Happy birthday_.”

“ _Thanks, babe_.” And there’s so much _else_ she wants to say, but later, they’ll have time—and so Patty just beams, eyes soft as the lights of Manhattan race by, play shadows across Holtzy’s face, because they have all the time in the world. Or at least, the rest of tonight.

Patty can’t fucking wait.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise yatesbert history lesson! also the cop talking soup with abby is none other than detective charles boyle of brooklyn 99, because you know they'd be instant pals.
> 
> our girls are dirty dancing to [this song](https://youtu.be/Jca0B2lbqpU) in the club, brought to you by [the best damn fanmix](http://8tracks.com/mccullaz/be-my-baby-a-toltzmann-fanmix) for these two i've ever heard. thanks [mccullers](http://mccullers.tumblr.com/) for the inspiration ♥︎
> 
> as always, thanks for reading. throw a comment in the hat if you've got thoughts, we wanna hear them all!


	6. hitting an all-time low

When Patty rouses herself to groggy, throbbing awareness it’s with a dull, incessantly-pounding motherfucker of a headache, a blanket dragged up to her chin, and the distinct memory of _not_ getting laid last night. _Shit_.

Squeezing her eyes open before slitting them shut quickly because _christ_ , it tastes like something died in her mouth and she’s still in her dress from last night; a crick in her neck is a goddamn understatement and she’s sprawled on the third-floor sofa like a prom queen the morning after a rager.   


When she dares open her eyes again Patty's blearily lifting her face out of the pillow it’s been smashed into, watching the glass of water rippling on the table in front of her to the din of pans being shuffled around in the kitchen. There’s an empty plastic bucket on the floor by her discarded fuck-me heels, and it reads like a sad statement of everything she's feeling right now—mainly like suing Malibu Rum for  ten counts of emotional damage, because there's an empty bottle of that on the floor too, surrounded by Scrabble tiles and it's all coming back to her now.

Slowly. In atomic sort-of flashes.

Spilling out of the cab last night to Abby feeling sorry they'd had to leave early, dragging them back upstairs with promises of more booze and board games, because _come on guys, what's a party without board games_? (A normal human party, Patty'd wanted to say. One where people drink and eat leftover cake and then go home to fuck without having to sit through their coworkers fighting over _fucking Boggle_.)

Wanting to hold Holtzmann's hand on the way up the stairs. Not knowing how to ask, not wanting Abby and Erin to see. (Holtzy'd followed her up the steps anyway, sly fingers grazing her ass instead like a happy accident, except is it still an accident if it happens no less than  _nine_ times, that sorta sounds like a habit.)

Actually sitting crammed together on the sofa, same team, thigh to thigh and leaning in towards Holtzy, craving her closer but hyperaware of the pair busy busting out the Scrabble board. Throwing her head back to laugh when Erin flung a G tile at the wall in a fit of pique, and letting her cheek rest on top of Holtzmann’s soft fluff of hair while Abby seethed about poor sportsmanship. Wanting to get back into a cab and take Holtzy home to Brooklyn just to fucking _sleep_ , thinking hazily that she’d settle for climbing into her firehouse bed with this gorgeous weirdo and zonking out with her face in those amazing ( _oh my god perfect, mouthwatering_ ) tits.  


Holtzmann getting up for a glass of water and Patty watching that tight ass move across the room, too far past sober to care about staring while Abby plunked another tile on the board, Erin wailing in the background. Trying to slide her stilettos off like a supermodel and leaning over just enough to aim her baby a flash of world-class cleavage, fluttering her falsies up to Holtzy in the sexiest smolder around after  eight drinks… Her engineer staring wide-eyed over the rim of those tinted frames, pink mouth agape and Patty wondering if it would be worth it to just, drag her off to bed like a prize, except her legs stopped working a couple of shots ago and so she could only look, and lick her lips, and _want_. 

Holtzy sliding back onto the sofa nearly in her lap, murmuring something like _think we’re losing_ with a throaty chuckle at her ear and Patty grinning, giggling into her girl’s neck like a teenager, nuzzling into her skin _fuck_ she smells so _good_ and thinking _shit yeah, happy birthday to me_ , and that’s where her memory stops—

Fuck. _Fuck_ , she passed out on _Holtzy_ , right when they could have been getting horizontal, god _dammit_ —

“Oh Patty, you’re awake!” Abby’s voice carries from across the kitchen, interrupting her mental anguish long enough to poke her face over the pillow with a pained groan because homegirl is _loud_. “You want your eggs scrambled or fried?”

Patty wants no eggs, Patty’s thinking back to last night and hating every single thing that led her to this point, slumped on the sofa with no sign of Holtzmann—and between the throbbing in her head and the ache in her gut, she’s out of fucks to give, rasping through a raw throat. “Where’s Holtzy?”

“Uh, said she wanted to recalibrate the containment unit. She’s downstairs.” Abby shrugs cheerfully and cracks an egg into the skillet; the sizzle makes her skin crawl and Patty tries not to flinch at the sound—she swears the speakers last night gave her tinnitus. “You should go talk to her.”

And Abby’s not even looking at her, poking at the pan with the spatula but there’s something—maybe she’s imagining it, but Patty squints at her for a minute, finally easing off the couch and groping for her shoes, stomach turning over at the smell of breakfast and that’ll be a solid _fuck no_ on those eggs, then.

“Cool. Think I’m gonna go throw up in the shower first.”

Abby cracks another egg, totally unfazed by the announcement as she flicks on the coffeepot. “Okay, hope it helps!”

Any other day Patty might appreciate the thought, except as she drags herself through the bathroom door with the kind of hangover people make movies about, she decides it comes about  seven hours, several drinks, and  sixty fucking Scrabble tiles too late.

 

***

 

After a scalding shower Patty stands at the steamed-up mirror in her towel; she may feel like death warmed over, but if she has to suffer for a legendary night of drinking, at least she’s gonna look _good_ doing it. Teases her short hair up into easy spikes, brushes her teeth twice and downs a sizeable glass of water with a pair of aspirin, _god_. Maybe she felt like a teenager last night, but here, in the cold grey light of morning, Patty’s feeling every single fucking year and then some.

Tries not to overthink what she’ll say to Holtzy while smearing on the peachy-pink lipstick she’s been saving for a date, and failing about as hard as her game last night, pursing her lips and scouring her sore brain with a wince. _Sorry I fell asleep on you, baby. You wanna try lunch somewhere? Hey, about last night. You wanna pick back up where we left off_ …? 

Fuck, no. None of it sounds passable except maybe the apology, because _jesus_ , falling asleep on the girl you’re trying to seduce? Amateur night, and Patty’s got nobody to blame but herself—and maybe Abby, for insisting on game night in the first damn place as she cracked open the rum. 

Erin’s still a motionless lump under the covers, pillow tugged over her head and Patty doesn’t envy her: if girl’s got a migraine even edging on her own, bed sounds like the best place for her. Patty’d be there now if she didn’t have a lunch date on the horizon and yeah, time to call it what it is—she’s got a few places in mind, maybe let Holtzy choose though; her baby’s usually got pretty good (bizarre, fantastic) taste, might make this easier. 

There’s a plate of eggs on the counter she diligently avoids, pours herself a cup of coffee instead and gulps half of it for liquid courage before starting down the stairs, hand shaky on the rail—Patty calls it leftover vertigo from last night instead of the nerves coiling in her gut, but she’s always been  five shades of shit at lying to herself and it doesn’t stick.

When she finally makes it to the ground floor, Holtzmann’s nowhere to be seen. The containment unit’s humming away like usual and Abby’s migrated down to her predictable Wednesday jaunt at Kevin’s empty desk, ponytail swaying as she reaches for the blaring phone, cutting it off mid-ring with a muted grin.

“Ghostbusters! Please give a detailed description of your apparition—”

Patty’s sweeping a tired look around the garage because Holtzy’s not here, not in the Ecto, no sight of her be-goggled ass anywhere and _come on_ , any other day her girl leaves a trail of explosions and spare parts like breadcrumbs, and the _single damn time_ Patty’s ready and waiting to take her out…

"Oh no—ma'am, _stop crying_ , I can't understand you—yes, this is the right number— _oh_ —flying objects? Ghostly laughter from the walls? _A threatening aura_?" Whoever’s on the line sends Abby into a frenzied rush for her PKE meter, clutching it like a safety blanket as her eyes grow wider behind thick black frames, fumbling for pen and paper like an afterthought. And even from where she’s stood halfway up the stairs, Patty takes one look at the enthusiasm radiating and starts rubbing her aching temples; this headache’s shaping up to be one of those  four-day affairs with goddamn bells on. "We'll be there!" 

They're the Ghostbusters. So hungover or not, they kind of fucking _have_ to be.

And it's not like she slacks on her research: as soon as Abby hangs up she resigns herself to trudging back upstairs, tearing apart her bookshelf and the metropolitan database trying to scrape up even a _teaspoon's_ worth of intel on the place beyond a crying octogenarian on the phone, and this Holtzmann thing ain’t going anywhere till the engineer actually shows up, so. 

She runs through customary procedure for what should be a standard bust, except available historical content on the caller’s Ditmas Park Victorian is about a metric fuckton of nothing. So much nothing that Patty finally caves and dials up Municipal Archives, holding the phone away from her ear as the woman on the other end rustles what sounds like a short stack of papers. 

"No births, no deaths, not a single police visit on record—this might be the cleanest place I've ever seen, honey. You're _sure_ this is the right address?"

"Yes," Patty grouses and massages the aching place under her eyes with a thumb. "Thanks anyway." 

“Hang on, here’s another folder…” The woman rifles through another bunch of papers and Patty’s just sinking a groggy cheek against her hand, propped up on the arm of her reading couch when a flash of blonde catches her eye—and she’s jerking up, reflexes slower than usual but Patty’s awake enough to shove the phone under her chin, starting as the engineer darts up the stairs. 

“Holtzy!” Her baby doesn’t even halt at the summons, just grins sheepishly over one shoulder, teeth chomped down into her bottom lip as she sends Patty a wonky thumbs-up and vanishes, boots clunking up the stairs and taking them twice at a time like her tail’s on fire, and. This ain’t exactly the morning after she was envisioning on the cab ride home.

“ _You there_?” The phone is echoing against her throat and she’s shoving it back to her ear, feeling like a damn fool for staring up the empty steps like her girl’s gonna reappear, heart thudding in her ribs.

“I’m here—you find anything?”

“No, that was for a different property. That’s all we’ve got on record, sorry.”

Patty’s just mumbling a second, lackluster thanks when a screech from the ceiling tugs her gaze up, up to where Holtzmann’s sliding down the pole past her, clutching the thing like a goddamn coveralled koala with that blonde head tucked to her shoulders, boot soles squeaking all the way down to the garage and she’s gone again. And maybe it’s the lingering fog in her head, but Patty’s starting to think that maybe all this avoiding is intentional.

“ _Seriously_?”

 

***

 

By the time the Ecto’s brakes screech in front of a grim-looking Victorian overhung by grasping trees, Patty’s headache’s down to a dull roar and she’s wondering if maybe she was wrong before, because Holtzmann’s been cracking jokes and tapping her hands on the wheel through a slew of Flatbush traffic; even looking back to her with a shiny grin when they stopped for a light.  Three stories of peeling green paint and dark windows shadowed by branches looks straight outta _Nightmare on Elm Street_ , but Patty keeps it to herself like a professional because they got a job to do. Gearing up instead and waiting around while Holtzy checks her pack; _damn_ she wants to say something, stood on the sidewalk feeling like her tongue’s too big for her mouth while her baby's flicking switches and humming Bowie under her breath. 

When it’s her turn to help Holtzmann she barely manages a stilted, “You feelin’ okay, Holtzy?” that earns her a silent nod, thumbs-up again and alright, so maybe this is—maybe they’re equally fucking useless around each other, after last night. Patty can roll with that, double-checking the straps before giving her toolbox a little slap, sliding back into their usual rhythm and hoping Holtzy’s along for the ride. “Good to go, baby.”

“The owner left the house this morning to stay with her son in Jersey, but she said she’d leave a key—” Abby digs around in a flowerpot of wilted geraniums on the railing, glasses sliding down her nose before she’s drawing out a dirt-covered glove, looking to Erin triumphantly. “Found it.”

“Alright, guys. Maybe if this is a quick one, we can be home by noon.” Erin’s leading the way with determination in those steely blue eyes, up the steps with Abby on her heels, and Patty rakes an unconvinced glance over the wide porch as the front door creaks open. She hates flying blind, without enough history on the place, they're easy targets—they’ve done it before, but that doesn’t mean she has to like it—and as they step into a dim foyer, fanning out in a line, Patty feels the hair at her nape rise like a warning. 

Walnut panelled wood lines the walls between bouts of faded floral wallpaper, and the carpeted staircase leading to the second floor spills out by their feet; the space looks cavernous and cramped at the same time, and the air is cooler than outside, musty. The whole damn place feels textbook haunted house, and when Holtzmann pipes up beside her, Patty nearly chokes.

“Stephen King called, he wants his house back.” 

Patty knows it ain’t but the place is definitely soaring high on the creepy scale, scanning the lengthy hallway and closed doors with her proton pack’s modified spotlight, shiny new grenade gun swaying against her shoulder because just having it on her arm makes her feel better, swallowing hard as she agrees. “Or the setting for his next bestseller.” 

Hefting her PKE like Lady Liberty, Abby sends a look down the line from where she’s stood at the foot of the staircase, all of them jumping when the door slams shut behind—and Patty’s heart stutters into panic mode as the lock tumblers resound with a harsh _click_ , bolting itself from the inside as the machine in Abby’s hand takes off.

“Okay, definitely a ghost,” Erin’s nodding, rocking on her feet like she’s ready to leap into the fray when a creak splits the space, jerks their focus up the stairs to where the steps groan, wood shifting under the weight of—of _nothing_ , there’s nothing there even as the footfalls descend, nearing with each passing step. Patty’s finger twitches towards the trigger as she watches thin air with blood roaring in her ears, adrenaline surging because she’s terrified but she’s also a _Ghostbuster_ , and she’s here to kick some serious undead ass.

They wait an uneasy breath, a quartet of swaying flashlight beams following whatever’s descending the staircase, Holtzmann’s teeth clacking like a Newton’s cradle when the footsteps fall silent. A heavy door bangs shut at the back of the house, echoing hollowly through the space as Abby nods wildly, PKE meter still whirling bright. “We need to check all three floors, and there’s a basement—”

Patty’s in no rush to tackle a ghost that left an old woman in tears, but she’s also got a hangover that won’t quit and a date on the menu, which enables her to speak up first—she’s more than ready to blast this thing back to hell if it guarantees her the rest of the afternoon free. Not to mention a one-way ticket out of emotional limbo to somewhere with better scenery, like a fully-functioning adult relationship. Hell, that sounds like fucking _paradise_ , and the thought spurs her on. “Holtzy and I can take down here, if y’all wanna check upstairs.”

Abby looks to Erin calculatingly before she nods, and _there_ , nice and succinct—even if volunteering Holtzmann without asking her first is a bit of a dirty trick, but her girl looks totally unbothered by the assumption, even going so far as to smirk, pull a salute then pat the trio of blinking grenades down her chest strap, like dicey medals of honor. “Muscle up, buttercups! Patty and I have got this in the _bag_.”

“We’re drawing, Holtz—it’s anyone’s game.”

White-girl trash talk over with, endorsement from the other  two means Patty can breathe easy now, finally satisfied she’s getting Holtzy _alone_ : no disappearing, no running off, no ghost girls to interrupt them with spilled drinks or board games. Just some real talk between two _sober_ , grown-ass women, and maybe a ghost.

…Oh man, this shit’s got potential to be all kinds of awkward.

They linger in the foyer just a little longer after Abby and Erin start upstairs; for all her bluster Patty can feel herself getting cold feet and she tears a page out of Holtzy’s book, muscles up and flashes a grin she doesn’t feel. Tries amping herself for whatever’s next with a bit of patter as she steps toward the back of the house, engineer in tow. “You know, a lot of these old Victorians had their kitchen in the back; a place this size might’ve had more than a single cook, dependin’ on how wealthy the owners were—if I remember correctly, there were a handful of servants to start with.” 

And maybe it defies logic, but the way Holtzmann’s poking her nose behind every picture frame and dubious china plate, nudging them with the tip of her proton wand yet always looking back to Patty, eyes open wide behind those tinted lenses like she’s eating up every scrap of knowledge, like she’s expecting _more_ —it does something _wild_ to Patty’s insides, ghosts don’t even come close.

“Think it could be  one of them? Always tip the butler.”

“Not sure, baby. Trying to find anything concrete on this place was a nightmare, all I got were basic census records and I’m not so sure they’re complete.” This feels back to normal at least, trading theories with Holtzy by her side, and Patty shuffles her ghost gun into the crook of her elbow as she reaches for the door, twisting the antique brass knob open to a poorly-lit kitchen.

Holtzy lets out a low whistle through her teeth as she flicks on the fluorescent overhead, and Patty can’t help her grimace at the yellowing linoleum and ugly-ass cabinetry, all the worse in unflattering light. “Oh man… the seventies were _not_ kind to this place.” There’s a pair of grimy accordion doors she’s betting hides the pantry, and Patty wrinkles her nose as she sweeps round a look, the whole room is crying out for some bleach. “If I was a ghost _I’d_ haunt here purely out of spite, just to get ‘em to renovate.”

There’s a pause as Holtzy nods, circles the heavy wooden table in the middle of the room before she suddenly freezes in her tracks, gasp hushed. “ _Oh, no_.” 

Patty’s heart kicks right into her throat, tasting panic as she whirls. “What?”

“Something, _truly_ terrifying…” Her girl slowly spins on a booted heel, holding up a faded floral plate like an omen of doom, bug-eyed behind her safety frames. “ _Melamine_. Enough to make anyone go ghost.”

_Jesus,_ fuck. The laugh huffs out of her, but it’s weaker than she means it to be and Patty thumps a hand over her heart, trying in vain to settle her pulse. “Antiques Road Show called, they want their damn plates back.”

Holtzy’s unrepentant, just slides her a smirk and bounds a few steps towards the stained formica countertops, turning up a toothy cringe at the greying loaf of mold inside the breadbox and shit, kitchen patrol looks less appetizing by the second. This place is probably ground  zero for an unchecked strain of bacterial infection, and Patty’s all for getting them out of here, for getting Holtzy to stop unscrewing jars of dried shit _no one_ should be sniffing because it’s gonna bring back some 1920’s disease they ain’t ready for—and that’s when Patty surprises herself, words falling out before she can reel them in. “Ah, Holtzy, baby? Can we talk?” 

_Shit_. 

Too late to turn back; Holtzmann’s looking up from a jar of decade-old pickles, big blue eyes peeping over the rim of yellow lenses that slide down her nose from the attention, scraping teeth over her bottom lip and brows raising up to the stained roof tiles. 

And now Patty’s got Holtzmann’s undivided focus but it’s not all she wants; Patty wants, wants _her_ like she’s never wanted anyone else. Holtzy makes everything new, brightens up a room with that danger-slick grin and Patty wants to do _stupid_ things with her, wants to get drunk on the spark in her eyes and the way her nose creases up when she’s working equations. Patty wants to graffiti their names together all over Manhattan, and spend the rest of her life busting ghosts if it means they can get dinner afterwards, feet tangled up just under the table, hands fumbling and _okay_ , deep breath—this is it— _apology first, lunch second_ , _to infinity and beyond—_

Except a sound splits the room like someone’s dumped a load of metal scraps into a blender and Patty’s ears pop like high altitude’s come calling; Holtzy’s stumbling back from the counter with eyes wide as _every single drawer_ slams open, their contents rattling, _shaking_ as her baby gropes for her arm, voice small. 

“ _Patty_?”

And _oh jesus_ , knives and forks and even fucking spoons are rising in the air, a kitchen full of cutlery spinning lazily off the countertop, rotated by unseen hands and hovering under the sickly light, and Patty forgets how to breathe.

Which is of course when everything goes to hell without handbrakes.

She moves on instinct, terror kicking in her chest and a scream rising in her throat that never quite makes it _out_ , grabs for Holtzmann and _no time to explain_ Patty’s hauling her up by the waist, dragging her right back outta the room and slamming the door shut behind them just as sixteen drawers of fucking _knives_ shatter off the antique wood, a handful even splintering _through_ and _WHAT the FUCK_ —

The fraught interim of silence immediately erupts in an echoing _cackle_ down the hall, one that makes her blood run cold, staring at the door-cum-pincushion mere inches away Patty’s gaping, that could have been _us_ , _oh my GOD that could have been us—_

And Holtzy’s nodding so she must have said that aloud, patting her arm and catching her breath but looking just as rattled behind glasses gone askew, and it takes Patty a hot gasping second to realise they’re both still clutching the doorknob, holding it shut with hands squeezed tight. “Quick thinking there, Pats—thanks.”

_God_.

Patty lets out a shuddery breath and nods, slowly easing Holtzy back to the floor and extricating her shaking hand, though they both share a look before they ease off the doorknob, step back as one. Feels like her throat’s been scraped down a gravel road. “ _Shit_ , sweetie… that was too damn close.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t have been bad-mouthing the decor.”

The giggle that escapes her is high, frantic almost; looking down at Holtzy she feels like a scared kid, trying to shake this off but that could have been end of the line and Patty nods, limbs shaky. “They can keep it.”

A trample of footfalls overhead makes her flinch, but it’s only the rest of their crew hurtling down the stairs and Abby pokes her head over the rail above, sweeping concern as they double-time it to the first floor. “Patty, Holtzmann? You guys okay?”

“We heard a lot of noise.” Erin makes it down first, shoves a stray wisp of hair from her eyes with an exasperated flick. “Everything’s locked upstairs off the landing, except for one of the bedrooms.” 

Abby looks almost disappointed, hands moving to her hips. “And it was just a lot of dust—there weren’t even any creepy dolls lying around!”

Erin’s expression furrows as she turns to her companion, sliding into that signature head tilt Patty’s come to recognize as objection, and oh boy, _here we go_. “I mean, that bedskirt was pretty scary. Peach roses with orange trim?” 

Holtzmann’s chiming in, blonde brows tugging vertical. “Abby, we found your mother’s dishware. _Melamine_.” 

“Ugh, don’t remind me.”

And _goddammit_ but Patty’s only human, headache building back up to biblical proportions and she’s starting to feel like the only levelheaded woman in a fucking _five mile radius_ while her scientists get lost in minutia—so she’s throwing an accusatory finger towards the kitchen in disbelief, creased frown settling on Holtzmann.

“Okay, so is _nobody_ gonna mention that we almost got _shanked_ by a ghost throwing _knives_ at us? Just me? Look at the _door_!”

Both Erin and Abby tilt their heads as one, finally tuning in when Abby’s jaw drops. “Oh, _geez_.” 

Holtzmann looks almost contrite, glasses spilling down her nose again and she’s gnawing on her lip, slinking behind Patty with a hangdog look. “Yeah, almost _shanked_.”

“We are _not_ dealin’ with a friendly here, and if it’s all the same to you ladies, I’d rather bust this thing and bounce.” Earlier ambitions aside, hashing out a future with Holtzy can keep; somebody’s gotta have their priorities right and with this group, it’s looking like that somebody is Patty Tolan, former MTA worker, present metaphysical commando and designated Adult. _Lord._  

At least Abby’s heard, peering up to her with sudden and blazing interest. “Did the spirit manifest at all? You get a look at it?”

“Didn’t see it.” Patty shakes her head, glancing over her shoulder to send Holtzy some serious side eye, girl’s hiding behind her like it’ll get her out of trouble. “We were _a little busy_.”

Abby bares her teeth, trades a grimace with Erin. “That’s… not great.”

_No fucking shit_ , Patty wants to say, feeling like her eyes are ready to roll out of her damn head before Erin takes a deep breath, brows pinched. 

“It almost sounds like—like a _poltergeist_ , but if that was the case it would be haunting the owner specifically, not the house.” Abby nods in confirmation and Erin presses on, voice pitching as she gets more and more stirred up. “Flying objects, that’s a big one, and _knives_ —”

“Definitely a T3 or T4, anchored to the house,” Abby leaps in, looking almost giddy with the revelation and unable to help herself as Erin bobs her head; it’s like watching a set of matching cogs click into place with a backing track of technobabble. “Malevolent, repeater, I’m thinking a Class II ethereal manifestation, but so far lacking in any ectoplasmic residue—”

“Uh, guys?” 

Holtzmann raises a gloved palm smeared with green slime, twirling a metal cylinder through the fingers of her other hand like an absent tic. Thick gobs of ectoplasm are oozing through the faded wallpaper and splatting on the carpet with a sound Patty already wants to forget, splashed all over her girl’s boots. “Sorry, gotta offer a counterpoint there.”

Abby's damn face lights up behind her black frames, rosy-cheeked as she pushes over to Holtzy, marvels at the slick creeping down the walls and whatever the engineer’s rolling around her palm. " _Yes_ —Holtzmann, that's perfect! Erin, come look. This is _brilliant_ , ha!” 

And this is a hot mess of skewed priorities all over the place but Patty finds herself ambling towards her girl anyway; Erin’s sliding to Abby’s side with a wrinkled nose, and she sweeps the dripping wallpaper a dubious look. 

“The slime is always out to get _me_ , I don’t trust it.”

Abby’s waving off the concern, reassuring her with something Patty doesn’t hear as she steps around them, jutting her chin at the shiny canister in Holtzmann’s hand. “What’s that? Never seen it before.”

“Ectoplasm capsule; Abby asked me to cook one up. Thermoregulates the ‘plasm for up to six hours. Spared _no_ expense.” Holtzy whips a white-blonde curl off her forehead with a tilt, smirk flitting through the concentrated look she’s got fixed on the device, voice dipping low. “ _Like her_?” 

Patty’s mercifully liberated from answering as Abby raises her proton wand, pointing at the yawning doorway opposite Hell’s kitchen. “Guys, I think we should stick together—this next room’s open, we’re going in.”

“ _Oooh_ , come to mama.” Holtzmann pops the lid on her capsule with a hiss, runs it right up the wall through a veneer of gunk, collecting her sample and purring as the can emits a whir, metal glowing faintly blue. “Twelve-year-old me would have killed a man for this.” 

And in another world maybe Patty could watch her all day, but the ghost girls have already trekked into the parlor and hanging around out here is only prolonging the inevitable, tapping Holtzy lightly on the arm to steer her attention back on track. “Hey, Abby and Erin said we need to stick together, c’mon now.” 

And tearing the engineer away from her toys has gotta be worse than herding cats, but this time at least Holtzy’s poking up from her work, securing the lid and thumbing the edge of her safety lenses with a jaunty flick. “Easy to get hung up on details, Pats.”

“Put the details _away_ and let’s get goin’.” 

“Your wish, my command.”

Satisfied, Patty nods and starts off towards the doorway, birthday gun tucked into her shoulder like security as she checks out the unexplored space, on guard to her surroundings this time. The room is long and dim, dark fireplace at one end and bookshelves lining the walls. There's a faded antique sofa with a big stain down one arm, and a grandfather clock blocking what little light is pitifully fighting through the grimy window. Abby’s flicked on a lamp but it’s doing jack shit and they’ve all got flashlights lit, scanning the empty room and seeing nothing—which Patty knows by this point means precisely _dick_ , but it’s about all they’ve got going for them right now.

Abby’s waving her PKE meter around like she’s panning for gold, while Erin’s opening a narrow door built into the far wall—Patty’s thinking closet, judging by the size of the room, and the faint outline of shelves caught in Erin’s spotlight beam. 

“Okay, this woman definitely belongs on _Hoarders_ , she has like eighty boxes of—” Her words cut off as she’s suddenly yanked through the doorway so fast Patty can barely believe what she’s seeing as it slams shut behind her, belated shriek bouncing off the walls as the lock _snaps_ into place.

“ _Erin_!” Abby’s sprinting towards the closet, tossing her PKE to the side and flinging herself against the wood, desperately tearing at the knob like she can rip it open and calling against Erin’s frantic yelling from the other side. “Erin I’m coming, hang on!”

Patty’s gasp gets caught in her throat, whirling a glance over her shoulder for Holtzmann but girl’s not there, _why the fuck_ and she’s stumbling back out through the door, shoving her head out into the hallway with a holler, frustrated and scared. “Holtzy, _get in here—_ ”

The words die on her lips with the terror-inducing sight of her baby plastered against the wall, _six feet up the wall_ , big blue eyes stark with panic and she’s clutching at her throat, dragged even higher through the slime and rasping for breath. “Oh _shit, Holtzy! Sweetie!”_

Out of reach Holtzmann’s kicking her feet, slapping hands on the wall and thrashing against the tide, the necklace taut around her throat is  _strangling_ _her—_ Patty staggers back, levelling the shaky sight of her gun just above the engineer’s desperate flailing but the thing’s tugging her up, jerking Holtzy’s sagging frame from side-to-side and she’s stopped fighting; hands falling limp at her sides and Patty fires but can’t, _can’t_ _fucking watch_ —

The grenade tears through the hall in a blinding flash, rocking the walls and Patty’s flinching, throwing down her gun and launching forward to break her baby’s fall when she comes crashing down, rolling hard together in a pile of shaky limbs, heaving lungs.

“Fuck _fuck, baby_ — _sweetie_ —” Tugs her upright, smears slime off her face and away from her mouth and nose as Holtzmann gasps, wheezes back to consciousness with trembling hands, clutching at Patty like a lifeline, croak muffled into her shoulder.

“ _Thanks_ , Patty— _that was really—drivin’_ me, _up the wall_ —”

“Jesus.” Patty gropes around the slimy mess of floor, finds her girl’s missing safety glasses and hands them over with an arm still braced around Holtzy; they’re both shuddering, foreheads pressed together, the blood is thundering in her ears and she almost _lost_ her, _too fucking close._

A crash from the other room has Holtzmann twitching and it’s too soon but Patty’s reluctantly hauling her up, hand tight on her baby’s sleeve because she’s not letting go this time. “Fuck this. We get the girls out, the ghost can stay—this shit’s well above our pay grade.”

Holtzy’s nodding, keeping pace at her side as they skid down the hall, fall through the doorway. “Need grenades. More grenades.”

“Erin, stand away from the door!” Abby’s yelling through the keyhole, kicking at the door like a warning before she douses the hinges with a proton blast and burnt wood sizzling can’t drown out the sudden broken screams from the other side, Erin’s sobbing and banging fists but weaker now, hysterical.

“ _It’s in here with me_!” 

Panic grabs Patty in a chokehold, barely able to move beyond weakly scrabbling for her trigger but Abby’s faster, fucking _throws herself_ at the door, literally tearing the scarred thing off its smoking hinges and heaving it away, Erin crumpling into her arms with a hoarse cry as Abby _roars_.

“Holtzmann, get that fucking trap open _NOW_ —”

“I couldn’t see it, _I couldn’t see it but I felt it_ ,” Erin’s gasping, burying herself in Abby’s hold with tears streaming down her cheeks and Patty can only think of Holtzy’s necklace tight around her throat, can barely think straight as she fumbles her gun.

Her baby’s stabbing at the screen on her arm gadget with a finger, nodding and fiddling with the device as she drops to her knees, slides the trap out from under her proton pack and talks herself through, teeth snapping. “ _Need to widen the capture field_ —” 

Something hurtles past Patty’s ear, narrowly missing her head and exploding against the nearest bookshelf in a hail of shards; she jerks around with wide eyes, firing a grenade at the fireplace out of goddamn _spite_ as another figurine flies off the mantle. “Sweetie, _please_!”

“ _Recalibrating_ , almost there—”

Patty swings wildly as she scans the room, lamps toppling and picture frames smashing to the floor as the spectre rails against their attempts at capture, slashing a trail of destruction in its wake that’s at least easy to track and she slams another grenade into the far wall, effectively shielding her ghost girls long enough for them to scramble back. Abby’s already got her gun up, firing a warning stream across the plaster.

“ _Today_ , Holtzmann!”

The thrill is gone, the thrill fucked off about the same time she caught sight of her baby pinned and choking halfway up the wall and she’s _done_ ; this is a goddamn ghostly temper tantrum at its peak and Patty’s ready to bust a cap in this paranormal ass, bellowing at the woman on her knees.

“ _NOW!”_

Holtzy’s still bent over the thing, still tunnel-visioned on nailing her calculations when the big-ass clock behind her suddenly sways, tipped forward by absent hands and it’s like everything else fades, long enough for Patty’s heart to fucking _stop_ , fuck no _fuck no_ and she’s stumbling, boots thudding as she throws herself at Holtzmann. Crashes into her, shoving her as far away as she can and thinking _baby, please_ but the thought’s gone before she can finish it, slammed into the floor with the weight of the world on her back. 

_Hurts_. 

Patty washes out, blurs into nothingness, jolts back with a gasp. Tries to raise her head. Her vision's flickering in and out, or maybe that's the shattered bulb across the room. 

_Shoulder’s on fire. Breathing’s a bitch._

“ _Abby, I’m out of grenades_!” and Holtzy's voice is strained at her ear, cracked like the edge of hysteria's clawing up her throat, and Patty gropes for her sleeve, tries to tell her not to worry even though the words slur through her mashed lips.

_Holtzy. I'm okay. S’okay, baby._

Patty shoves a hand into the carpet, dazed but desperately groping for her grenade gun when a hand reaches over hers, snatches it away and she sobs, blind and angry and _hurt_. Her eyes won’t stay open and there’s a blast that makes her flinch, curling painfully into herself even as phantom hands tug all over her, they’re _all over her_ and she wants them to _stop_ , crying please _, please leave me alone_ but no one’s listening, no one cares and they’re dragging her down, down _down down_ into the dark, and she can’t go, not without her girls, _not without Holtzy_ —

As it turns out

 

 

Patty isn’t given much of a choice.

 

("There's too many of them this time, babe." 

They’re back in the middle of Times Square, Patty and Holtzmann hip to hip with proton guns raised, and her palms are soaked with sweat beneath her gloves because this is starting to feel like one fight that maybe they can't win. 

"Not for long." Holtzy's already reaching for the grenade belt draped across her chest like the worlds most dangerous pageant winner, pulsing like a live wire and they're both high off the adrenaline, dizzy with it. 

Patty's heart is hammering double-time in her chest but all she has to do is look at the woman beside her, and she's ready to tear down the world with a laugh on her lips because together, they’re _invincible_.

"Get their ass.")

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know that part in the middle of every action film, when the audio track fades out for an epic score, so you know shit just got real?  
>    
> [i call this one "patty saves holtzy, part 67"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kk4M0IeiC1M)
> 
> (SO MANY apologies for the long hiatus, it's been a busy month! if you're still reading leave us a message, tell us how you're doing! the mrs. and i were lucky to take a jaunt up to nyc, and we're back with an extra two chapters in the works, as well as a lot of real-life inspiration. thank you for keeping us going with your love and amazing comments!)
> 
> also you can find us on [tumblr!](http://thepratandtheidiot.tumblr.com/)


	7. girl, ease my mind

(Twenty minutes after playing exorcist and Patty’s still shaken like a can of coke, hands wobbly while she straps on her shiny new thigh pistol. Tight. So she can feel it.

Abby’s stalked off to deliver Erin another angry message, leaves Patty eyeing a vaguely twitchy Holtzmann, who’s scrambling repairs with her blowtorch and looking oddly contained for somebody who almost ate Chinatown sidewalk under an hour ago.

Patty’s got the distinct feeling they oughta be checking in with each other. As a team.

And as a rule she’s not opposed to some emotional heavy-lifting, but it’s a little disconcerting when you look like the only one ready to flip your lid. Like, possession and near-death experiences, ringing any bells? Not so much with this crowd, but Patty figures maybe she’ll start.

“Baby, you okay?”

There’s a catch in Holtzy’s voice, pitches higher than her usual throaty drawl but she nods so hard her curls bounce, not glancing up from her welding just yet. “Oh, yeah. Never better.” She gnaws viciously at her bottom lip, sending an owlish blink to Patty after thumbing off her torch. “Duct tape, beautiful. Behind you. _Por favor._ ”

Patty’s not buying it for a second but turns around, catches sight of the industrial-size roll of silver tape inexplicably abandoned by its lonesome in the booth and brings it back, setting it on the edge beside Holtzmann’s gloved elbow. “You want help?”

Holtzy tugs the flatter goggles down around her collar and makes grabby hands for the tape, peers up to Patty as she rips off a long strip of silver with her teeth. “No. But you can talk to me. _Things_. About things.”

“Things?” Patty tries, not quite tuning into whatever frequency Holtzmann’s jamming on, and she doesn’t look out the open window either. There’s still broken glass all over street.

“Favorite train-siren. Why pigs have curled tails. Your choice ice cream flavor?” Holtzy sounds like she’s reading off a memorised list, practically vibrating, slapping duct tape all over the back of her cracked proton pack like bandages with a manic sort of glee. Patty doesn’t know where to start, mostly wants to shake her by the coveralled collar and demand _are you actually okay, because you’re not fucking acting like it_ but that seems kinda rude.

“Uh. Rocky Road?”

Holtzmann lights up like her blowtorch, lays down another line of tape across her faraday cage. “How _about_ , me and you. We go for ice cream. _After_ the apocalypse. You, me. _Yes_? Sprinkles galore and a cherry on top.”

Patty can’t tell if she’s kidding anymore. Not sure if she wants to, actually. “Deal.”

Holtzmann sticks out a rubber-gloved hand and they shake on it, solemn as fuck and Patty’s pretty sure girl’s crazier than a bag of cats in a heatwave. She’s also pretty sure this saving New York thing could end in tears, and if this is her last night on earth, well. Kicking it with Holtzy wouldn’t be the worst way to go.

They never actually go for ice cream, but they do manage to interrupt the end of the world, so.

Small favors.)

 

***

 

Patty Tolan doesn't come rattled easily, but sat on the lid of the toilet sobbing into her hand, she’s _shook_. This is a different brand of _too much_ , was overwhelmingly-too-fucking-much a whole lotta hours and an ambulance ride ago, and the view ain’t improving an awful lot, because after death creeps up behind and rakes its fingers down your neck—or sprints after you with a goddamn shovel—you don’t just get up and walk it off.

Trying to remember what happened in that house feels like all the air leaving the room, curling its way out of her lungs in a long thin rope that looks like a scream and leaves her mouth numb, head clouded. There’s a thudding ache mixed somewhere in there but it’s dull, buried under a fog of memory and she cringes at the sudden intrusion of Holtzmann’s limp body, flopping around her mind like a choking puppet—Patty shakes, breath scraping out of her throat as she wraps her working arm around herself, shoves her face into her good shoulder and grits her teeth. 

Waking up in the firehouse alone, in a too-big bed and no sign of her girls had her disoriented, shit-scared for fifteen dizzying seconds of panic before she’d rolled onto her side—then screamed into her pillow with the intensely sudden spasm of _agony_ through her back, lightheaded as fuck. Another ten minutes before she could move again and finally, woozily staggering in here, bathroom tile freezing under her feet when she bolted the stall door, burst into tears.

Patty barely remembers the hospital. It’s all a swirling mess of faded peach linoleum and too-bright lights, being wrapped in a sling with her arm throbbing like a motherfucker—leaning against someone in the back of the car ride home, head dragging on their shoulder. _Holtzmann_. 

Busting ghosts has always been about helping folks, keeping her city out of danger, and if that happens to come with a healthy wallop of adrenaline through your veins, knowing you’ve got those nightmares on the run—well, Patty can’t complain. She’s known from almost the start that danger tastes more like electricity crackling off their proton streams and celebratory after-bust hot dogs, and way less like the mind-shattering certainty of _yes_ , _you_ are _going to die_ , and probably sooner than later if the paranormal world gets a say.

Short story long, Patty’s never been slammed on the mat so hard by her own mortality, and it’s got her thinking all fucked up, wondering if. If she’s even cut out for this job, because none of her girls have ever lost it like this. Can’t see Abby crying her eyes out on the toilet, girl walked away from possession like shaking dust off her shoes; and Holtzy landed in her arms with a goddamn _joke_ , like. Maybe this level of supernatural shit _is_ off the fucking chain, and Patty’s the normal one for feeling like it ain’t for her, but it’s sure hard being a Ghostbuster when you’re soft and scared, and maybe just a little too touchable. 

It’s delayed, this reaction; Patty’s sure as hell aware she’s probably in shock, but just the thought of going back in the field has her shaking, balling up toilet paper and trying in vain to smear away her tears, blow her nose. Her head’s stuffed and her mind’s keyed-up, anxiety playing back the worst parts of that nightmare until she wants to tear her eyes out, smushes her good hand over her face and has to remind herself to breathe. _In, out. In, out_. 

She’s here. She’s _alive._

Maybe she’s not cut out for this. Maybe she just needs a hug.

When Patty finally lets herself out of the stall, it takes five minutes trying to wash her face one-handed before she gives up. Her eyes are puffy and white girls don’t know shit about black girl hair, so hers is a frizz-dried mess from sleeping again without a cap—she’s feeling pretty down, and it’s only the creak of a door from their sleeping quarters that has her perking up, heart thudding at even the possibility of human contact. Starved for something outside her own thoughts and _goddamn_ , that’s pathetic. She’s _pathetic_.

Doesn’t stop her from smearing the last of the snot off her face, giving a final rub at her cheeks and limping to the door, bedroom grey through an overcast skylight.

Erin’s stood in the doorway to the hall, hands pressed warm around a mug she’s got clutched to her chest. Dark circles ring her eyes and Patty silently clocks the cuts running up her exposed arms, ugly red lines and welts that mark her skin, looking like somebody’s used-up scratchpad.

“Erin, hey.” 

The physicist watches her with those discerning blue eyes, always so serious and enough to make a woman feel like she’s an important study, worth learning. “How’re you feeling?”

A lot of things. A lot of fucking things, but none of them Patty can put into words, so she just gives a shaky sort of nod and crosses back to her bed. Her faded Starfleet mug is steaming on the nightstand, next to a row of what Patty’s praying are some top-shelf painkillers—like, _get some oxy up in this bitch, stat_ —because the devil’s on her shoulder, and he’s twisting her arm right off. Smells like chai and she casts a look back to Erin, lips turned up just a little as she knocks back the handful of horse pills, chases them with a swig that burns her tongue. “Thanks.”

Erin bobs her head, loose hair swaying at her shoulders as she lifts her own cup, gulps a sip before returning it to rest against her wrinkled hoodie, gaze somber. Girl looks cosy, Patty feels like she needs it. “Abby took Holtz out for some air, think they were talking about breakfast.” She tilts her chin, hopefully. “You hungry?”

A deep, feeble growl from the base of her belly responds for her but Patty ignores it, reaches for the tea instead. “No. Thanks. Maybe later.” Takes another drink, savors the warmth sliding down her throat and every ounce of her wants to ask, wants to know more but can’t bring herself to search for words.

There’s a pause before Erin speaks again, quiet.

“She’s barely left your side, Abby had to drag her out.”

There’s no judgement in the statement, more of a question—one that Erin doesn’t ask outright, and Patty offers no answer for it, can’t. Gets warily back into bed, heeding her shoulder as she settles her knees under the duvet, leans back against the pillow like laying down a newborn. Holtzmann’s mattress is pushed tight to hers, looms between her and Erin like a sea, tattered orange blanket crept over onto Patty’s side. She doesn’t kick it away.

“I don’t know how much you remember,” Erin tries, carefully. Like the wrong word might trigger a landslide, and Patty wants to tell her it’s fine, because now past the pain, she mostly just feels. Numb. “You separated your shoulder, pushing Holtz out of the way.”

Explains the sling, and why her entire body’s busted like an overripe mango; feels like she lost WWE smackdown to a fucking flight of stairs. Flicking a look over Erin with worried eyes, Patty’s frown settles in after a minute when she juts her chin. “Your arms.”

The woman looks down, almost embarrassed as she shrugs, voice going small. “Uh yeah, when I was _trapped_ …” Erin trails off, shudders. “Abby got me out.”

Judging from her queasy look she’s remembering her time in there and Patty offers, if only to drag the woman away from her demons; lord knows she’s got enough of her own. “Glad you’re okay, Erin.”

The physicist nods, forces a tight smile as she jerks her head; it’s easy to see she’s scraping for her next point, or overthinking it. “You saved Holtzmann. Twice.”

It’s spoken as a fact, with absolute certainty but there’s a vulnerability in Erin too, almost ashamed, like the woman’s apologising for not knowing sooner. Which is stupid as hell because she was already busy trying to get rescued, and apparently locked in the closet with Satan’s feral housecat. “She told us about the hallway while we were waiting for you to be discharged. We had no idea.”

Patty can’t say anything. Her mind’s a fuzz but the memory of her baby rasping for air is crystal-clear, fucking haunts behind her eyes because if she was even a _second_ later around that corner it would have been over—it sends the panic rocketing up her throat again and Patty just wants _out_ of her own head because her mind’s stuck on it, looping an endless replay of almost-nearly-not-good-enough. 

“You know, you’re her guardian angel. She said as much.” 

It’s a damn good thing she’s left the chai on the side because it’d be _all over her sheets_ with the way Patty nearly chokes on her own saliva, holy _shit_. She’s still picking her jaw up off the covers as Erin gently rolls her eyes, in the way she so frequently does when referencing Holtzmann. “Well, _bragged_.”

There aren’t _words_ for the feelings welling up in her chest, in all honesty; Patty gropes for them deep in her soul and just sort of comes up… empty-handed, floundering in a sea of _wow_ and _why_ and _she thinks I’m her angel,_ and. Patty’s not complaining, it’s a really _good_ feeling, but uh. _What the actual shit._

Mercifully Erin rescues her from having to say anything at all, pins her with an earnest look as she clasps the mug to her heart, those tired eyes lit up like she’s proud. “You were _amazing_ , Patty. We just want you to know.”

And maybe ghost girl has no idea, but just those few little words and it feels like a weight’s rolling right off her busted shoulder—not all of it, but enough that Patty feels a lump swelling up her throat, shoving past it with a weak smile because, _god_. _I needed to hear that_. _Even if it ain’t true._

“Thanks, Erin. I’m not feelin’ it too much, at the minute.” 

She tips Patty a sympathetic look and taps fingers on her mug like a nervous tic, class ring clinking against the ceramic. “You’re um, on concussion watch—and the hospital wants you on bedrest for the next week. They treated me and Holtz for shock, so Abby ended up with all the paperwork, she can probably tell you better than I can.”

Imagining her girls brought into the ER scared to pieces, being treated for _shock_ cuts Patty right down to the quick, and she knows Abby must have been scratching the drapes waiting, or at least haranguing the hell outta their on-call nurse— _fuck_ she missed a lot, being out of it like that.

“We weren’t sure if you’d want to stay here or your apartment, but you’ve been asleep ever since, so we didn’t get to ask…”

Patty nods slowly, winces when the motion pulls a sore tendon at the back of her neck and she doesn’t really want to know, but asks anyway to fill the silence. “The ghost?”

Erin drags a hand through her hair, shrugging. “Everything sort of fell apart after you went down. Holtzmann used your grenade launcher to force it into the trap. Abs called an ambulance, and Holtz rode with you. We followed in the Ecto.”

Patty takes a minute to process all that, feels like her mental loading bar gets stuck halfway when a sudden dread sinks her stomach, realising with a sick sort of lurch she doesn’t actually _know_. “ How long were we there for?”

“At the hospital? Only a few hours. Do you, not remember anything, of being awake?”

The most agonizing _pain_ of her goddamn life, paired with the caustic sharpness of antiseptic hospital wipes.  Bright flashes, shouting voices and sudden dread, reaching out for someone she couldn’t touch and grasping hands, tugging her back to the light even as she flinched away. Streetlights flickering through Holtzmann’s hair as they sped through the dark, pressed together in the Ecto’s backseat and feeling the heater blasting on her face, woozily thinking _I’m alive. We’re all alive._

“Bits and pieces.”

Erin nods and tucks her lips in, pulls that bland expression white people wear when they run out of shit to say, but don’t wanna be weird about it. “Um, well. I’d better let you get some rest. I’m in the kitchen, if you need anything.”

“Thanks.”

Patty reaches down with her good hand, drags the duvet up and settles in, head already feeling heavy as the sound of Erin’s footsteps fade out, echo down the hall. Holtzmann’s ratty orange blanket’s crept further onto her own and she lets it, actually snags it by a threadbare corner and tugs it near, up to her chest before she finds a reason not to. Grounds her long enough to shut her eyes, fist it close and breathe in a familiar whiff of citrusy hairspray, the faint tang of metal solder with something sweet, soft underneath.

Smells like Holtzy, and laying here with it curled warm around her beat-up body, feels like she’s giving Patty that hug she so desperately needs.

 

***

 

She’s just drifting, cheek warm and heavy into her pillow with dim light filtering through the blinds, almost comfortable for the first time in what feels like _years_ when voices echo down the hall. Abby’s upbeat timbre rebuffed by something lower, more abrupt and Patty pushes her face further into the pillow, eyes aching and sore.

There’s the creak of the bedroom door opening, muted slap of feet across the rug and then a dull _thunk_ against the bedframe that rattles her, interrupted by a muffled curse that’s unmistakably Holtzmann. Rustling sounds like she’s wrestling a jacket away and popping a pill bottle at once, a glug of water later and their conjoined mattresses dip, sinking under the added weight as the woman steals into bed beside her. 

She curls close enough for those bent knees to brush the back of Patty’s, shifts restlessly like she’s trying to find the best position. Hand grazing past Patty’s back, her waist, and Holtzy lets out a soft breath then, before weaving her fingers into the threadbare cotton of Patty’s worn tee like she _belongs_.

_Jesus_.

Her heart’s kicked into something wild and erratic in her chest and _how_ can Holtzmann not hear it, Patty swallows the breath caught in her raw throat and squeezes her eyes shut, should try and _sleep_ but she can’t—and a handful of heartbeats later she wets her lips, takes a shaky breath and lets the name scrape out of her. 

“ _Holtzy_?”

Her bedmate goes rigid, and Patty curses herself because she can already feel that hand slipping away, wanting to grab it, tug it back—sighs against her pillow instead, head throbbing. “Baby.”

There’s another pause, some shuffling behind her and she can hear her girl’s sharp inhale, bed shifting as she does, treading lightly. “Pats… did I wake you?” 

Holtzmann sounds small, voice hoarse and Patty shakes no, manages that at least even though it ups the dizziness in her skull, and this is easier somehow, not looking at her. “Nah.” She feels slow, sluggish. “You okay?”

Holtzy’s short nod shuffles the pillow, blunt nails scratching lightly at the sheets. “Abby made me leave. Take a walk.”

“Missed you.” Patty doesn’t know why she says it, thinks vaguely that it’s the meds, or maybe her filter’s up and hopped the A train, but she fucking means it and mumbling here, into the mess of blankets and warmth with Holtzy curled up behind, feels like relief. “ _Glad you’re back_.”

“Mm. Me too.” Another whisper of sheets and girl burrows deeper like she’s eager to avoid further commentary, the faint squeak of hinges as the bedframes creak beneath their weight. Almost a too-long pause. “How’s the shoulder?” 

“Hurts. Feel like I got hit by a bus.” Patty bites her lip, letting her heavy lids flutter shut for a moment of reprieve, but sagging back into the covers, closer to Holtzmann. Let her figure out what it means, Patty’s too tired for boundaries and her head’s a fog. “What about you?” 

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

Sounds like bullshit and Patty forces her eyes open, winces as she rolls slowly onto her back and the muscles pull, sling slackening—and feels her heart founder somewhere around her ribs like a ton of wet sand. 

“Oh, _sweetie_.”

Those usually bright eyes look so dim, hollowed by dark circles, vulnerable without the glare of lenses between them, and there’s an ugly mar of stitches above her left eyebrow alongside a cluster of smaller, scabbed over cuts. Dark bruises line her bare throat, a faint mess of scratches and purplish marks blooming at the surface, and Patty should have _expected_ this but the breath wheezes out of her anyway, catching sight of a compression brace on Holtzy’s wrist, like. _Shit_. 

Clearly self-conscious with the scrutiny Holtzmann ducks her gaze away, melts down into the blankets on her side and begins picking at the covers between them instead with a grin that doesn’t touch her eyes, looks like she’s curling in on herself. “You should see the other guy. He’s dead.”

Patty knows she’s bluffing, fucking hates it. Pushes up on an elbow to see her baby’s face better, past the bruises. “Heard you caught him.”

Holtzy chins a nod, oddly detached. “Downstairs in the unit. Solitary confinement. Abby wants to run some tests. Never seen this kind before, could be a new class.” 

That’s… interesting, maybe, another day when her head’s stopped caving in on itself and her back isn’t twisted five ways to Sunday. Patty gives a slurry blink, trying to scrape together something appropriately enthusiastic before the engineer dodges ahead, clearing her throat like a run-up.

“Uh, thanks, Patty. Saved my bacon back there.”

Her baby aims her a guilty smile—as if she fucking _asked_ to be flung up the wall by mister invisible—and Patty softens the frown she knows she’s sporting, plays her best card with a gentle nudge. “Kinda my job now, you think?”

Holtzmann’s lips twitch. “You’re the best in the business.” 

Settling back against the pillow with a sigh, Patty looks up into those shadowed eyes and reaches her good hand to graze Holtzy’s stitched forehead with confession on her lips, searching for words but the engineer beats her to it. Again.

“Vase to the frontal lobe. Ladies _love_ a scar.” 

“This lady loves you being _alive_.” Girl’s fooling literally no one with that cheshire cat grin, full of swagger where it don’t belong and maybe this is too heavy before breakfast, but Holtzy needs to know. “Almost lost you, baby.”

The ghost of mirth drops off the engineer’s face and Patty catches sight of a cut on her cheek she didn’t before, a curved gash just beneath her cheekbone. “Never with you around.”

Well, fuck. That is a _line_ , and Patty watches her for a minute, brown eyes on blue and dizzily wonders what would her life be like—what would the _world_ be like—if she hadn’t walked right into this girl and decided to stay, and she feels her throat going dry when the words stick. _What if I can’t always be around, Holtzy? What about then?_

Her memories of that house look like hell and the others didn’t know what happened in the hall, when she dropped out Holtzy must have felt so desperate, so _scared_ —Patty may have spared her from a face full of clock, but doesn’t mean the rest of her made it out unscathed.

Reaching up to lightly run fingers through Holtzmann’s windblown snarl of curls, the motion settles her, even if she’s catching specks of dried blood littering her darker roots: girl needs a shower, and if Patty wasn’t so damn tired and in a fucking sling, she’d strip down and join her. “Not goin’ anywhere without you.”

“Scout’s honor?”

“Yeah.” Patty bites her lip, lets her gaze unfocus as she stares up to the ceiling, still stroking Holtzy’s tangled mess of hair and idly watching clouds through the skylight. “Couldn’t pay me to move right now.”

The silence stretches comfortably between them; buried under a warm duvet with her baby is doing wonders for Patty’s busted-up nerves and she’s thinking sleep might not be so far off when Holtzy chuckles in her throat, fidgets at the edge of her brace like she’s remembering a private joke.

“Abby almost decked your nurse.” 

Last night she was pretty grateful to be tripping on morphine, but now Patty’s almost wishing she was conscious for _that_. “Lord. _Why_ , exactly?”

“Said family only. _I_ said you were a sib from another crib. Didn’t buy it, but _Abby_ , she name-dropped the mayor and the rest, as they say, is history.”

“Damn, wish I’d been awake for that.” Patty shakes her head into the pillow as she shifts her hand, laces her fingers between Holtzy’s shorter ones. She doesn’t ask about the beds. “Erin said you rode with me in the ambulance.”

Holtzmann’s fingers are cold and the rubbery stack of bandaids  around her thumb feels clammy, but she squeezes Patty’s hand hard enough to banish the worry. “Had to make sure you were okay.” 

She says it so simply Patty’s throat runs dry, like _of course_ Holtzmann rode with her, like there was no other option she’d ever consider. Makes Patty’s chest feel tight, like there’s too much going on in there right now, or maybe that’s the muscle relaxers doing a number on her heart rate. Either way she’s got a pretty definite feeling it’s gonna stick, truth leaking out of her because _thank you_ seems so not-enough for this thing they’ve got going, taking turns catching each other with the softest hands, a damn all-star team with feelings.

“Was with you, baby.”

Holtzy clears her throat again, a muted version of the usual noise her girl makes when she’d rather throw all her feelings off a cliff than air them aloud. But also like she’s gearing up to say something important. 

Patty waits. 

“Uh, we didn’t know if you’d feel better in your own place, if you wanna—”

“I’d rather be here.”

There’s a pause, another rustle, and then she can hear the faintest quirk of a smile in Holtzy’s voice, indulgent. Relieved. “Okay.”

Feels like years have passed since that night at the club, and maybe there’s more to say but Patty’s beat, and her head’s doing like Michelle Kwan on thin fucking ice—so with that hand still laced in hers Patty shuffles gingerly onto her side, tugging Holtzy’s lanky arm around her waist and shoving her face back into the pillow, heart slamming in her chest.

“You go if you need to, Holtzy.”

The engineer says nothing but shifts her wrist slightly, hugs her closer before puffing out a warm sigh, noticeably relaxing in the loose hold she’s got on Patty and yawning like a kid, lips smacking, _and_.

Maybe it’s the pile of prescription drugs talking, but this kinda feels like home. Especially when Holtzmann echoes her earlier assessment on the coattails of a poorly-muffled smirk, hand patting warmly at her hips and yeah, there’s no place on earth Patty’d rather be right now.

“Nope. Couldn’t _pay_ me to move.”

 

***

 

Bedrest is about the furthest thing from familiar in Patty Tolan’s life, and it’s not that she’s complaining because she ain’t. She’s a woman who knows how to relax, has tuned curling up under her duvet with a book and brioche to a fine art, and with digs in spitting distance of three different bakeries, she’s got that shit on lock.

But lazy Sundays are a category on their own and the last time Patty had an injury this bad, ghosts were a non-issue and she was a lot more concerned getting her seventh-grade ass upstairs every morning on crutches, while Mr. Zdunowski helped her up the janitor’s stairwell. These days she’s hobbling less but aching more; her nightstand’s looking like Holtzmann’s twin full of orange prescription bottles, and this goddamn sling is fraying her last _goddamn_ nerve, tugging her neck every time she breathes.

But hey, rest is rest, and that last bust scored a solid grand slam on her anxiety levels, so for now at least she’s content to sit, propped up by pillows with a Kindle in her lap. Rain’s spitting down the window in lopsided, splatting drops but she’s safe inside, cocooned in her raspberry duvet and basking in the syrupy prose of a (tragically under-researched) historical romance she’s been saving for down time when the engineer herself comes breezing in—throwing her coat over an invisible rack and brandishing a paper sack with so much gusto in her stride, Patty can’t help but sit up and take notice.

Holtzy bounces over to their spliced beds, climbing clumsily across the blankets to rest back on her haunches. “How’s my favorite patient? I brought _you_ a _treat_.” 

Before she can say anything however Holtzy’s pointing a finger, blonde fluff tipping to the side when she tilts her head, reminds Patty of a bird. Something small and fidgety, like a chickadee. “Whazzhat?”

“Nothing good.” Her baby merely raises both brows, face expectant like she’s waiting on Patty to prove it and she huffs a sigh, sets down her Kindle. “Cheap romance. The history’s bullshit, but I’m invested now.” And maybe it’s down to the way Holtzy’s eyes glint behind rain-speckled lenses but Patty’s half-hoping she’ll bite, surprises herself with a filthy grin. “The sex ain’t bad either.”

Holtzmann smirks, arms going across her chest with the greaseproof bag crinkled in between, voice pitched low like she’s selling something. “Now with _more_ ripped bodices and heaving breasts, or your money _back_!” 

And Patty might be willing to let a little historical integrity fall by the wayside, but she’s not gonna waste her time on _garbage_ —Patty’s a grown-ass woman, she knows from good erotica. “Girl, do I look like I’d read that crap? I got _standards_.” 

The engineer just chuckles, low and throaty as she throws herself back into their tangle of blankets, arms akimbo while Patty shakes her head and tries not to fall in love, again. “So what’d you bring me, huh?” 

Rolling onto her belly, Holtzy pops up from where she’s half-wriggled under the duvet, covers sloping off her frizzing head as she surrenders the bag with a flashy grin. “There’s a kosher bakery off second avenue that does it better, but I didn’t have the subway fare.” 

“That don’t really answer my question, but okay.” Rustling open the paper sack, a wave of doughy warmth hits her right in the face and Patty’s breathless groan is totally involuntary, peeking at the golden-brown twist studded with fat chocolate ribbons before falling back against the pillow, clutching the bag to her chest. “Ohhhh, _baby_.”

Holtzy’s already scrambling up the blankets, nodding and pawing for the bag, prying the crinkled paper out of her hand. “That’s good, right? Patty-approved? Sounds like it’s good.” 

Good’s the understatement of this century maybe but she knows Holtzy sometimes needs telling these things, so Patty just nods, grin stuck all over her face like leftover gum as her girl breaks open the bag. “More than good, Holtzy. You get the Patty stamp of approval on this one.”

Holtzmann’s already ripped off a handful of babka and stuffs it past her lips, chewing noisily as she offers the rest to Patty, raining crumbs down the bed like new year’s confetti and humming through a full mouth. “Mmmh, _ghood_.”

The dough is rich, melt-in-your-mouth sweet and Patty’s tastebuds wake right the hell up, start _singing_ because the chocolate’s got that velvety, just-dark-enough edge to it that she loves and maybe she’s had a better pastry somewhere in this city, but don’t ask her to remember where.

“ _Ohhh_ …” Tipping her head back, Patty savors every damn bite. “Can I just, marry this? Can you marry food? Like I wanna buy a ring, ‘propose to it in Times Square’ kinda thing.” 

“You orthodox?” Holtzmann angles her a sly brow, looking pretty damn smug for someone with babka in her teeth and chocolate smeared across her chin, and Patty’s pretty sure she’s never liked anyone more. “If so, then _yes_.”

“For this, I’d convert in a heartbeat.” 

They tear through the entire thing together in a flaky haze of crumbs, all down the sheets and when she finally musters up the brain cells to speak again, Holtzy’s flopped over onto her back, licking those scrawny fingers clean. 

“Thanks baby, that was so damn fine. Must be what angels live on.” 

“You _did_ eat it,” Holtzmann counters, smirk broad while a memory from yesterday moves into Patty’s head and starts unpacking; Erin’s words echoing in her ears because Holtzy thinks she’s her _guardian angel_ , like. Patty ain’t blushing, she _ain’t_ , it’s just warm in here all of a sudden. Without the heat on.

And anyway Holtzy’s bouncing up, claps hands together before Patty can call her out for being a goddamn flirt-and-run. “Have any plans tonight, Pats?”

“Hm.” Patty sends a look down herself and the sore arm strapped to her chest, snort on her lips. “Oh yeah, I got  a _real_ busy schedule, but think I can squeeze you in between my third nap, and oh, a whole lotta nothin’.”

“Perfect. Erin left her iPad unlocked, so I queued up the entire sixth season of Mythbusters.”

Totally unexpected but not averse to the proposal, Patty rolls with it, smirking. “The second team in that one? With the hot redhead.” 

“You _know_ it.” Holtzmann’s smile burns a little too intense to be regular, even for her, glasses clacking up and down her nose when she nods. “Need a refill there?”

Patty blinks at the notice, fumbling over the thawing ice pack she’s already forgotten. “Please.” 

Holtzy winks, rocks up on her knees before walking on them off the mattress edge with a muted salute, whisking out the door like a whirlwind clutching a gel pack, jaunty spring in her step. And maybe girl’s only doing all this ‘cause she feels guilty, feels like she owes Patty back for the rescue, but payback’s never really been a thing before; doesn’t fit the Ghostbusters team dynamic and _definitely_ doesn’t line up with watching hours of explosions turned up to eleven in the dubious name of science.

After years on her own, being looked after, cared about feels real nice—her shoulder’s still killing but when Holtzy’s around the pain’s harder to feel, gets lost under the way her universe _lights the fuck up_ every time her girl laughs. 

And maybe she’s still not cut out for this, but laying here surrounded by babka crumbs while Holtzy rattles cupboards down the hall, promise of an afternoon together hanging in the air, Patty’s thinking she’s exactly where she needs to be.

 

***

 

“We once taught a _week’s_ worth of classes as Jamie and Adam.” Holtzmann slurps another bite around the half-eaten Twizzler she’s got lodged in her mouth, been gnawing on for the past twenty minutes. 

“Really.”

Holtzy nods, sigh almost mournful as she recalls. “No one even noticed. We had beards and everything.”

Now there’s a mental image Patty can never unsee, watches the smirk worm its way across the engineer’s liquorice-stuffed face as she swishes the thing from side to side, drooping out of her maw like a mobster’s cigar.

“They probably weren’t even payin’ attention to you. You could’ve dressed as a martian and they’d still not have batted their lashes.”

“We did that once too. And you know _what;_ you, are _right_.”

 

***

 

“—I gotta go to physical therapy startin’ next week, but they got me on some good meds, so I’m okay.”

Her mama’s voice is echoing in her ear but Patty’s only half-listening, baffled by the sight of Holtzmann scampering around the room like a coked-up ferret, fixing endless sheets of printer paper with the same painted target all around the place, smacking them in place with long strings of masking tape and not a damn hint of explanation.

“Say what? Uh _yeah_ , in a sling. Nah s’okay, torn ligaments. Shoulder didn’t pop outta joint or nothing.”

Holtzy presses a target to the plaid shade on Abby’s bedside lamp, dusts hands on her sagging overalls sporting a pensive pout, but Patty does her best to look away, focus on her phone call. The longed-for voice in her ear is stirring memories from when she was a kid; whenever she got hurt playing, her mama was always the one encouraging her to get back up, shake it off.

It’s been too long since Patty’s gotten out of the city, out to check in on her parents in Jersey and that’s what’s being offered right now, a chance to escape. But leaving here, leaving her city after a shock to her life and still recovering, seems like the worst idea. Not to mention she plain doesn’t want to. Maybe she can get her parents to come visit her instead. In a few weeks. Maybe.

“I know I shoulda called you sooner but I’m _fine_ , not up for much right now anyway. _Yes_ my coworkers are taking care of me, Letta offered too. Don’t need to be worrying about me, I’ll call you in a couple days, let you know. Love you too. Tell Daddy I said hey.” 

Soon as Patty puts the phone down her mama’s sending a text stuffed full of heart emojis, pastes a smile right across Patty’s face by the time Holtzy wanders back in with a pair of giant nerf guns and a grin to match. Girl lays one at the end of the mattress, looking down the barrel of the other like it’s telling her a secret, nudging a curious finger between two of the foam darts before girl realises Patty’s got her full attention. Game mode on. “Just a little test here—Real quick, real easy. You ambidextrous?”

Patty stares, shakes her head as the engineer looks up, teeth flashing. “ _Excellent_.” 

Two minutes later Patty’s taking shaky aim at the hand-painted target taped to Erin’s pillow, and wishing she could make a modicum of sense outta what her life’s become—but meditation’s not even an option with Holtzmann in her ear, yammering cheerfully as she adjusts first the pillows to prop her up better, and then Patty’s working wrist to whatever she considers optimum firing height.

“Now with one of these cherry pickers out of commission for the foreseeable, the pack won’t be wearable until I make some _ser_ ious adjustments.” 

“Baby, I’m not sure I’m supposed to be wearin’ a pack at _all,_ for like. Months.” 

Holtzy blinks like she’s setting up new parameters inside that little hadron collider of a brain of hers before concluding another solution; Patty can almost see the puff of smoke pop out the top of her head with a _ding_. 

“ _Not_ a problem. I can make a mini pack. Or a new weapon. Build a pulley system to redistribute the weight. All sort of ways I can fix you up.”

She’s about to cut in, _this_ close to reminding Holtzy her shoulder may be fucked but she doesn’t need fixing—but Holtzy don’t mean it like that, wouldn’t patronize on purpose. Her baby’s only trying to help, in that sweetly unhinged way she’s got going on and it’s nice, even if Patty’d rather be watching more frivolous experiments than volunteering as a test subject.

“So you just, want me to shoot?”

“All in the name of science, Pats.”

“Why do I get the feelin’ that’s a go-to excuse for you to do whatever you want?”

Her baby’s sharp grin when Patty fires a round that _pings_ off Abby’s lampshade and misses by a mile marks that particular theory confirmed at every angle.

 

***

 

“Wait a minute, this episode’s got cockroaches?”

Holtzy peers up through a mouthful of gummy sharks, reclining against the headboard and smacking her lips like chewing tobacco in the wild west. “Testing effects of radiation. Flies and larvae—”

“Nuh-uh, next.” Patty’s got standards, and maybe they’re taking a beating as Holtzy shreds through the bag, lets loose candy fall out the bottom and into the blankets to join the rest of the mess, but. A woman’s got to draw the line somewhere.

“But the airplane on a conveyor belt—”

“Girl, I can deal with rats all day, but roaches? Bump that shit.”

 

***

 

It’s maybe too many hours and a lotta busted myths later when Patty finally turns to the explosion of blonde against her good shoulder, glad she’s here but jonesing for a change of scenery, not to mention the bathroom.

“You ever seen Drunk History, Holtzy?”

The engineer cocks her head slowly, eyes like a stick of dynamite even as her fingers twist, tug around the Rubik’s cube clacking softly between her hands. “With a name like that, I feel like I need to.”

“Well _I_ propose we watch it after this. Think I’ve had my fill of test dummies blowin’ apart for the time bein’.”

Holtzy hits pause and pops up like a lit fuse, already hoarding all the mess that’s accumulated in their hours spent together, stuffs candy wrappers in her pockets before reaching over Patty’s lap on all fours, snaking a hand for the ice pack, heat compress and the couple of empty mugs on the nightstand. “Care for anything while I’m up?”

And Patty’s trying not to overthink their current position but it’s awfully hard when you have the woman you’ve been stuck on for the past three months braced over you, asking if you _want_ _anything_. Like _hell yeah_ , now she’s not comatose or hungover or nothing Patty’s got a few things in mind, but she’s pretty sure her window of opportunity slammed shut about forty-eight hours ago, and saying something now just feels wrong.

“Ah nah, baby. Think I’m gonna get up, actually. Take a break.”

Holtzmann mercifully shuffles back, shirt rumpled and holding most of the trash bounty to her stomach as she slips off the bed, turns a wink in Patty’s direction.

“How’s about I rustle us up some grub, meet back here in ten?”

“Sounds good.” Holtzmann’s already taking the affirmative as a good to go, but Patty's feeling the sudden and urgent need to clarify something first. “Hey now, _real food_ though—none of this high-fructose bullshit. Sandwiches, and maybe a vegetable. When was the last time you ate somethin’ green?”

Holtzy tilts her head like a parakeet, stuffing on a thoughtful moue that drags her brows down in a crease. “Sour Skittles?”

“Don’t count.”

Girl snaps her fingers, cheeseball grin reappearing as she sidles her way to the door. “Ectoplasm.”

“Nope—wait, _what_?”

Too late, Holtzy’s already long gone as Patty slumps gently against her pillow, undone by the way this girl’s waltzed right in, past her brains and into her heart like she owns the place. Patty’s never wanted anyone more, never held back from chasin’ something she wanted more, either. And it makes _no kind of sense_ , except that she’s scared to slice up this perfect thing, rake this fucking beautiful friendship over the coals by dropping hints she wants to fuck, or date, or whatever the kids are calling it these days—this is good enough here, feels comfortable. Safe. 

(Patty’s gonna keep telling herself that till she believes it.)

 

***

 

“This my favorite drunk history episode, _ever_. Like, dude’s _wasted_ , but he gets the story pretty spot-on. Plus, how cool is it that a lady finished the bridge? Lotta people don’t know that story, but there’s a whole plaque dedicated to Emily Warren Roebling on the Brooklyn tower. Says behind every great work, there’s a woman, which if I know one thing from readin’ history all my life, that’s the goddamn truth. Pretty neat, huh?”

“Definitely neat.” says Holtzmann, picking apart her sandwich and dropping shredded lettuce in her lap. “ _Neat_ - _o_.” The engineer smacks her lips, swipes the mayo off them with a thumb before stroking her chin, ponderously. “Wonder if _we’ll_ get an episode.”

“Well, they best get Beyoncé to play me. Not settling for anythin’ less.”

“Not good enough.” Holtzmann grins up to her, piece of mayo-ed up lettuce dangling out her mouth and Patty laughs, wondering why the hell she’s allowed this girl to walk right under her unusually high standards. 

“Flattery will get you everywhere, baby.”

 

***

 

It’s gone dark through the skylight when Patty finally treks into the kitchen, eyes worn out from watching an overabundance of tiny iPad screen but she’s hungry again, could do with a drink besides water. Glass of wine is _out_ thanks to the pharmacy’s worth of meds in her system, but maybe just a quick cup of decaf will do the trick instead.

Holtzy’s popped downstairs to check the containment unit, make sure their most recent prisoner is enjoyin’ his digs with the promise to be back in a jiffy, hightailing it down the stairs like she’s got wings. Patty swears she saw the back of a crooked halo drooping off that mess of blonde, and maybe Holtzmann’s not the only one with a guardian angel, fallen or otherwise, because she’s been making this tedium more than bearable.

Abby’s poking at a pan of what looks like reheated Chinese, and there’s an open bakery box of muffins on the table. Patty takes up a seat after she’s flipped on the coffeemaker, hears the brewer growl into life slow but steady and she picks through the box, decides on blueberry.

“Hey, Patty… I just wanted to say thanks, for looking after Holtzmann.”

She almost chokes on the muffin crumbling down her throat. “Um.”

“I know it’s not easy, but she really needs a constant. And you’re great at that.” Abby stirs vigorously at the frizzling skillet, aims her a blithe smile.

“Ah, I didn’t do nothin’ special. We just hang out.”

“No, I _know_ , but,” Abby shoves the spatula off to the side, motions helpless shapes in the air like she’s trying to extrapolate on something without words, forehead scrunching up as her glasses take a trip down her nose. “If you weren’t there, in the hallway… she could have _died_.”

And Patty _knows,_ only too damn well because it’s been behind her eyes every time she shuts ‘em up till now. All day spent with Holtzy glued to her side, playing Erin’s iPad till the battery croaked, and having the engineer fidgeting and interested but most of all, _alive and kicking—_ that’s the only thing that’s helped keep those demons at bay.  Feels weird trying to get that out though, stumbling as she brushes over the praise with a weird, guilty pit in her stomach. Like maybe she’s lying.

“I was just doin’, what I—what _we_ always do. You were helping Erin. If our positions were switched, I know you’d have gotten to Holtzmann in time, and I woulda helped Erin.”

Pushing her glasses back where they belong, Abby peers up to her for a long moment and Patty’s brow creases, checks herself back in a rare moment of hazy self-doubt, but she’s pretty confident that all made sense. And if she’s almost relieved to notice the leftovers sticking to the skillet bottom and shift Abby’s focus somewhere else, Patty’s gonna plead the fifth on that one.

“Uh, think your rice is burning.” 

“Oh, cr _ap_.” Abby’s already shaking the spatula at the charring pile of twice-fried leftovers, pokes the mess with a grimace. “Holtzmann was right, I should have just nuked it.”

“Maybe throw some soy sauce in there, toss the worst of it?” 

Abby hums an affirmative, turning half back to the pan to shove the contents around again and picking right back up, seemingly undeterred by the setback. “Holtzmann’s been my best friend for a long time, always there when I needed one… She’s not so keen on saying how she feels, but I know you being around her, it means an awful lot.”

There it is again, this assumption that Holtzy somehow needs Patty more than _Patty_ needs _her_ , which is just… wildly untrue, for starters. Abby’s got her head in the fridge now busy rummaging for condiments, doesn’t catch the look of _hold up, what the fuck_ Patty can feel scrawling all over her face, so she takes another bite of dry-ass crumbly muffin and screws up her courage, drops a truth bomb she’s tired of hanging onto.

“Y’know yesterday mornin’, I was thinking about quittin’.”

The rooting around in the fridge _stops_ with a clink of bottles, brought to a standstill with the physicist’s wide-eyed face poking up from over the door.

“Not because I don’t love y’all, cos I do—but waking up after this, I was thinking man, I’m not cut out for this shit. The idea of goin’ back into another bust, after what happened… kinda scares the bejesus outta me. Like maybe I’m not gonna be up to it, like I’ll make a mistake and somebody else is gonna suffer for it.”

“Hey Patty, that’s not true—”

Homegirl probably thinks she’s helping but Patty holds up a hand, interrupts the interruption because she’s gotta get this out before it’s _gone_.

“I’m still scared shitless about it, I’m not gonna lie. But with the three of you lookin’ after me so nice, and Holtzy—she’s been getting me stuff, keepin’ me company—girl’s gone out of her way to help, make me feel like I matter here.” Patty sucks in a deep breath, heart thudding. “All of y’all have, like. I never thought I’d have so many white girls hanging around, tryna make me feel better.”

Abby beams till her dimples pop, dumps a fuckload of oyster sauce into the pan and swirls wildly. “Well for one thing, I’m glad. You keep this team together, and when it comes to history—Patty, you’re a genius. We’d be sunk without all those facts in that  head of yours.” She taps her temple thoughtfully, cardigan flapping on her shoulders as she shoves her sleeves back up. “We’d miss you around here, Holtzmann especially. You should stick around, because nobody does it like you.”

And, okay. That’s dope, and if Patty’s got a lump in her throat the size of a goddamn walnut, she’s _cool_ , she’s just having an emotion. Or three. 

Abby’s gone back to scraping burnt rice off the skillet, but Patty feels all that heaviness sitting on her chest—the thing squeezing the space around her lungs, keeping her from breathing—it just evaporates right into the ether, fades out of sight like was never there at all. Sat here at the kitchen table with half a muffin while her eyes prickle with tears she’s not gonna cry, because home ain’t just a place, it’s a bunch of people, caring about where you go and what you do, and.

This is the closest she’s felt to home in a long damn time.

 

***

 

Patty’s on her way back to bed, halts in the doorway when she’s greeted with the sight of Holtzmann wriggling into a baggy green tank, back to the door with navy blue boxers hanging off her skinny hips, and Patty never even _heard_ her sneak back upstairs, like. There’s a constellation of tiny brown moles scattered across her shoulder blades that Patty’s trying not to _see_ , to wonder about as she makes her way across the space, clearing her throat to let Holtzy know she’s here as the engineer flings herself onto their coupled beds and kicks her feet in the air, sprawled out on her belly with a groan.

“Do everything you needed to, baby?”

“And _then_ some. Erin was down in the lab, cookin’ the books. Told her she had a little bald spot—right _here_.”

Patty smirks despite herself when the engineer pinpoints a place on the side of her head, knows Erin’s been paranoid ever since Holtzy first introduced them to the containment unit, thinking her hair’s gonna fall out—girl’s a tangled ball of stress at the best of times, and that’s _without_ engineer input. 

Holtzy’s pink tongue pokes out like a golden retriever puppy, waiting for validation after thinking she’s cute and Patty slides back under the covers with an ache, not offering it. “You know you shouldn’t tease her. S’not nice.”

“ _I_ _know_. It’s fun though.”

“You’re like those kids usin’ a magnifying glass to burn ants.”

“Patricia! I’d _never_ hurt an ant.”

Patty’s smirk has returned with a vengeance _completely_ of its own accord so she dunks a slow sip of coffee to hide as much of it as she can, flips open the magazine she brought in from the kitchen; bit of light reading before they dive back into another binge fest of whatever show fruits Holtzmann’s loops. 

“Who’s this?” 

Patty stuffs away her smile at the curious finger creasing the black-and-white photographs lining the pages, quirking a brow. “Ella Fitzgerald, baby. Next year’s her centennial, they got a great article about her.”

She’s watching as Holtzy pouts, contemplative, one blonde brow rising like it’s injected with helium and _that_ there is six hours of Mythbusters talking. “We already had this conversation. She was on that list I gave you awhile back?”

Holtzy shakes her head like a stunned salmon, ingenuous in the best of ways until something looks to _click_ somewhere up in that nuclear hamster wheel she calls a brain, warbling a line at random that nearly gets Patty to drop her mag. “ _Tick-tick_ - _tock_ _of the stately clock_ … Day and Night! I remember.”

“ _Night and Day_  actually, but close enough. And no more talking ‘bout clocks.” Patty’s just satisfied she’s been taken notice of, ducks suddenly warm cheeks into her reading even as Holtzmann starts jostling the covers like she’s got something to prove, rocks up beside Patty with a triumphant grin, too-bright web page glaring out from the phone screen shoved in her face.

“She has a Drunk History episode. We should watch it. You can tell me all about her. Everything the episode misses.”

Holtzmann’s got her nose poked down into her phone again, inches from her face and attention seemingly consumed in its glow, but Patty knows better than to take her baby at face value. The way Holtzy always wants to find out what she’s thinking, what she has to say on any given subject, it makes Patty feel _appreciated_ , like. She knows she’s smart, knows she has specific knowledge about a lot of things coming out the wazoo, but this amazing little weirdo always hangin’ off her every word? Gives her something extra special, and Patty’s always more than happy to keep that intense focus occupied. 

“You know she made over 200 albums while she was alive? And she could scat with the best of ‘em, imitate any instrument.”

“ _Woah_ … hey, _I_ can scat—wanna hear?”

Holtzy starts up without further invitation but before she can send the First Lady of Song spinning any further in her grave, Patty’s halting her with a soft hand, because some limits just don’t deserve to be pushed.

“No, no baby, don’t do that. Just. _Don’t_.”

 

***

 

Halloween’s been on their radar for months, because anticipating an influx of paranormal activity—or at least, calls claiming an abundance of spooks, spectres and the odd roaming vapor—seems only wise, and after the week they’ve had, necessary. Problem is, they’re down to about two-and-a-half ghostbusters if they’re being generous, and Saturday morning sees an impromptu meeting in the sleeping quarters: Patty’s propped up in bed and nursing her second cup of coffee, Holtzmann laid on the bed beside her with ankles crossed, curly head dangling off the edge of the mattress while she feeds herself Pringles.

Abby’s dragged a chair in from the kitchen, frowning thoughtfully as she flips open her notebook and dredges up a pen from her cardigan pocket; Erin’s hovering over one shoulder like a pensive lawyer. “We’re two days out and our options aren’t great, ladies. Patty, it’s not your fault you’re hurt—”

“ _Patty_ ,” Holtzy interrupts, shoving another chip in her mouth with a doggedly loyal crunch, “Is a goddamn _hero_.”

Abby nods, ballpoint clicking. “Agreed, but that still means we’re down to Erin and me on Halloween night, and we’re not sure what kind of volume we’re looking at. I’ve already got Kevin working the late shift, and Patty, you’re excluded from this—no one’s expecting you to work. Holtzmann, I may need you with us.”

“ _Abby_ —” Holtzy’s waggling a finger at her brace like it’s Exhibit A for not bothering to complete a full sentence, combines a startlingly unrepentant shrug with a not-so-shifty glance she darts back up the bed, locking eyes with Patty. She’s knocked the tube of Pringles off the edge and judging from the look on Abby’s face, none of this is flying under the radar.

“The _other_ option—and I can’t believe I’m saying this—is that Erin and I take Kevin with us, and he can hold the PKE meter while we trap the ghost. Holtzmann, you’d be on-call _if_ volume is high. In which case Patty can take calls, right?”

Doesn’t feel like she’s been given much of an option so Patty just nods, shrugs her good shoulder because keeping the engineer by her side is her preferred brand of selfish, but not at the detriment of the team. Taking messages is a damn cake walk besides, and she’s got Netflix. Can definitely survive a night on her own. “Sure.”

“So which is the _actual_ plan, again?” Erin pipes up, clinging to her steaming mug like a lifeline and peering over Abby’s shoulder in a squint, button nose scrunching.

“Looks like it’s you, me, and Kevin. Holtzmann _on call_ —” The engineer whimpers like she’s been called for the draft, flops on the bed like a speared fish with sore wrist flung over her eyes while Abby fairly scowls across the room. “— _and Patty,_ on the phones.”

Even with a cocktail of pain meds shuttling through her system, Patty can already tell something’s off, man. Especially when Abby narrows her eyes, tosses her notebook on the seat she vacates with an exasperated _plunk._

“Holtzmann, can I have a word _out_ side?”

It’s a moment before the engineer gives any signs she’s actually heard, slinks off the mattress with a mutinous handful of chips headed straight for her mouth. “Abby, you can have _several_.”

There’s a pithy edge to her girl’s voice, maybe the first time Patty’s really heard it aimed at Abby, as the shorter physicist marches out into the hallway, Holtzy pacing after her with silent, loping strides and a litter of crumbs.

Makes her feel better when Erin looks equally in the dark, thin shoulders slumping as she droops over Abby’s vacant seat. “Uh, you know what that’s about?”

“I have no idea.” A clumsy pause as Erin clearly shoulders the awkwardness in the room, tries to turn it over with a too-hopeful smile. “The open house tonight should be fun—you’re staying up here though, right?”

The open house, _shit_.

Jennifer Lynch pitched the idea weeks ago after the museum fiasco, as a way to connect with the public without “causing undue panic” (which roughly translates to dripping slime and doing their damn job but whatever, Jenny). Then had some nerve acting like the mayor’s office was doing the most magnanimous damn thing by even suggesting it, but at the barest sign of a loosening leash, Abby and Erin snapped up the bait like starving trout.

Past the bureaucratic pandering, the concept’s solid: free Halloween candy for kids of all ages, an official meet-and-greet with the Ghostbusters complete with a tour of the downstairs lab, and a free kit which includes Patty’s own factual (but safely fourth-grade reading level) pamphlet on the history of New York, paranormal and otherwise. And best of all, a way to connect with kids and their families all over the city, regardless of where they’re from—ten-year-old Patty would have jumped at the chance, and being able to offer a night of fun to kids from the projects equally with everyone else, fucking _matters_.

She’s honestly pretty bummed to be missing it.

“Yeah, won’t be much use to you guys anyway. Not with an entire Walgreens up my pipes.”

“Oh, that’s not _true_ —”

Maybe a treaty’s been brokered, or maybe it’s just halftime but the door creaks as Abby and Holtzmann file back in from down the hall, the former looking moderately assuaged as she takes up her chair again, pen clicking. “Moving _on—_ ”

The engineer coasts back to bed and drops herself sullenly on the covers, shoots Patty an eyeroll like she’s in on the score and maybe Patty missed a thing or six, but she’s mostly remembering a distinct lack of explanation.

“—the Halloween party tonight! We have Kevin painting faces from six to eight; Erin and myself are hosting the tour which will be confined to the first floor, as will everything else, and Holtzmann, I’ve got you down for two demonstrations, seven and seven-thirty. Is that the potassium you mentioned, or something else?”

Shrugging into the covers, Holtzy waves a hand to show her thumb and finger a few inches apart. “Just a few bite-sized explosions, kids love ‘em. And I’ll show off our gear, after.”

Alarm’s scrolling up and down Erin’s paling face like an emergency broadcast, wringing hands around her mug and Patty can see her blood pressure soaring from here. “Uh Holtz, just to clarify, you’re not passing out weapons to _children_ , right?”

Holtzy smiles like a shark. “Only grenades and one turn each with a proton wand. I’ll get them all to sign a disclaimer, first.”

“O-okay, _no—_ ”

Abby shoots a pained look across the room that Patty feels in her goddamn _soul_ , clearing her throat like an aggressive foghorn and raps her pen on paper, gavel-style. “Okay executive decision time, no firearms for the kids! The last thing we need is to get sued by the mayor’s office _and_ fifteen screaming parents. Come _on_ , Holtzmann.”

Patty’s watching as her baby turns a crestfallen sniff into her rescued tube of Pringles, licking salt off her fingers without further protest and Abby pushes on, referring to her notebook. “And if that’s everything, ladies?

Erin seems to perk up slightly, clears her throat and gives her fellow physicist a gentle poke to the shoulder, hinting. “Um, Abby, the _tally_ …?”

“Oh, right.” Abby looks up from her book, bats gently at Erin’s hand. “Erin and I have discussed the score, and we’re going to concede the final ghost tally to Patty, _and_ Holtzmann, 32-31.”

So much for that mood drop of a few seconds ago, Holtzmann’s swinging an arm in the air with a whooped holler before offering it over for a high five. Patty just stares at her, waiting for the obvious to click—and when it does, girl’s still grinning. “It’s official, Pats! We’re the _best team_.”

Patty’s never needed a score to tell her that.

“Great, meeting adjourned.”

Erin hops up when Abby does, trailing out after her fellow physicist and draining her mug as Patty resettles in the covers. Her arm’s throbbing like a bitch but she’s grown used to it by now, furrows her brow instead because her baby’s taken to splitting a chip in halves, over and over till there’s nothing but crumbs in that leather-gloved palm. That slight, forlorn look of earlier has crept back in. “You okay, Holtzy?”

“Totes magotes, Pattycakes.” The engineer knocks back the handful of potato dust and grins, overlarge and totally unconvincing. Patty’s not having any of it.

“What’s goin’ on with you and Abby?”

“Uh, she just had some questions about my experiments tonight. Gonna be great, the crowd goes wild!”

Patty slants her a _look_ but Holtzy dodges out from under the spotlight, wriggles free by inching up the bed, rolling herself in that raggedy-ass blanket burrito-style and peering up through tinted lenses, batting those baby blues like a goddamn doe. “What are we watching next, Pats?”

And okay, Patty was thinking maybe she’d wander off to her lab or have things to prepare; she’s not complaining, it’s just. Unexpected, Holtzy wanting to stick around some more just like yesterday, and she stumbles over her answer. “Ah, I—figured I might read for a bit.”

“Oh yeah, we can, _cool_. Read.” There’s a pause as Holtzy squirms out an arm, tugs pliers and a spool of thin-gauge wire from her pocket and holds them up, smile flickering. “You mind if I tinker?”

Holtzmann’s question rings casual, but her lazy sprawl’s not enough to cloak a nervous twitch, shoulders hunched like she’s just waiting to be shooed away. Patty ain’t having that, picks up her Kindle and aims a fond little smile, hopes it soothes every doubt clinking around up in that ridiculous head of hers. 

“Knock yourself out, babe. Make me somethin’ pretty.”

And maybe girl just needed a little guidance, because at the directive Holtzy flashes her a grin like a roman candle, taps the side of her nose and flops over into the duvet, teeth clacking together gaily. “Dali, eat your _heart_ out.”

“Uh, baby, he’s a—never mind.”

 

***

 

Patty's been half-buried under a haze of pain meds for hours, drowsing past the endless drone of party echoing downstairs when the thud of footfalls shakes her into awareness with a groan, and _why_ is she laid in this position, it’s uncomfortable as fuck.

Thumping up the stairs and along the corridor, there’s a whole lotta commotion as Holtzmann skids through the doorway with bowling shoes flying through the room, bounds around the bed with a red solo cup clutched in one hand, another tucked in the crook of her elbow. Patty slowly sits up so she can see, her girl has orange punch sloshed all over the ribs of her flapping lab coat and shoves their drinks on the nightstand, hops onto the covers with a blinding grin.

"Patricia my _queen_ , I come bearing gifts..." And as casual as you fucking please, Holtzy leans down and smudges a kiss atop her head, bouncing back to brandish the plate in front of Patty's nose, elated with her spoils and seemingly in the dark about the frosting in her hair. 

Patty blinks. Kevin’s ghost cookies and a trio of mini cupcakes with bat-shaped sprinkles are crammed atop a mountain of what looks like Erin's gluten-free snack mix, with a lone and unexplainable chunk of pineapple at the other side of the plate. Patty doesn't ask about it, just looks down her shoulder and musters a genuine smile, stomach suddenly awake and raising hell. "Thanks, baby."

Holtzmann’s got their no-ghost logo painted on one cheek, smeared to hell and covered in glitter that Patty knows is gonna end up everywhere; after that smooch, it’s probably already in her hair. Those goggled eyes are shining like beacons, like watching Patty hover over which artery-clogging treat to pick up first is fascinating research and knowing Holtzy, maybe it is. Would be unnerving comin’ from anyone else, but in this case, it’s almost dangerously sweet. Like this cupcake.

“You’re missing a swingin' party. Potassium demo went _swell_ , and Abby’s breakdancing to the monster mash on repeat."

"I can _hear_ it." And if Patty moans a little too loudly, it's because she’s been hearing it in her dreams for the past two hours, non-fucking-stop. _Jesus_.

Holtzmann's undeterred, bobs her head and shoves an entire cupcake past her lips in one bite, chewing with her mouth wide open. "Yep, yep. Had to break up a fight, Erin got into it with a first-grader about quantum mechanics. Talk about ug- _ly_.”

“That girl would fight her shadow if no one was there to stop her.”

Holtzmann throws her head back with a bright orange mouth and Patty can’t help her grin, feels lighter than air with this bunsen burner of a woman hanging around. Holtzy’s brightened up the room, chased away the melancholy of being alone while everyone else is having fun downstairs, and Patty can’t help herself when she reaches in, tries to wipe the frosting outta that soft mess of curls with a fond chuckle. 

“Holtzy, you a hot mess.”

Smacking her lips around the cupcake, the engineer slides her a sneaky look from where she’s sunk into the blankets, gaze calculating. Mercurial. “I’ll take that. Put it right _here_.”

Girl slides a hand into her breast pocket all sultry like, and right now would be a fantastic time to maybe lean in, try kissing the taste of Red Dye 40 and vanilla sugar right off those twisting lips, if Patty’s shoulder didn’t kick up a stink at the mere _thought_ of bending that way. Like shit, not even a little bit. This ain’t fair.

“Zoinks, almost forgot—” Totally oblivious to Patty ruminating over mashing their faces together, Holtzmann’s fishing something out of her back pocket under her coat, offering it up with a subtle smile that makes Patty’s heart sputter like an open flame. “Special delivery.” 

Forcing herself to look down at the given gift, it’s a rolled up, dog-eared bit of construction paper covered in creases, clearly didn’t like being shoved in that back pocket. Patty can’t relate. “You should open it.”

There’s a clandestine sort of mischief in her voice that makes Patty squint past that sheen of icing and glitter, lost on whatever nonsense Holtzy’s got up her rolled sleeves except that it’s there, and she dares to follow anyway. Like always. Oh boy.

Unrolling the crumpled thing Patty sucks in a breath at the sight she did not expect; a crudely-painted pair of stick figures holding hands, clearly herself and a little girl with afro puffs, both dressed in orange-striped coveralls and with hugely painted smiles. They’re surrounded by green blobs of tempera-paint ghosts, and “TO PATTY LUVE ANIYAH” reads across the top, rendered lovingly in a childish scrawl with her letters all kinds of crooked, and if it’s maybe the best piece of art Patty’s ever seen, MoMA can shove it.

Flashing a grin, Holtzy sways forward sporting a significant look of her own, hands twitching.  “This kiddo rocked up, decked out like your mini-me and she could _not stop_ talking ‘bout you, Pats. Kept asking what you were doing, how many ghosts you’d caught today, where your desk was, why you weren’t there. Said she painted this at school and _demanded_ I give it to you. And let me just _say_ , even a short version of you is. _Persuasive_.”

Patty takes another look down at the drawing, it even has her earrings and she’s wearing her necklace; already feeling weepy and it must be because of the meds messing with her hormones, it’s gotta be. And if it reminds her of the birthday card Holtzmann drew her, then she ain’t gonna say anything about that aloud. “Oh, man… this is _so_ sweet. Wish I could’ve met her.”

Without further ado Holtzy hustles up the bed, crushing shoulder to (good) shoulder with Patty against the headboard and fishes out her phone, flicks briskly to her photos and hands over something Patty can’t make out till the screen’s shown up to her face, squinting at the brightness. 

Absently feels Holtzy’s chin rest on her shoulder as her eyes  focus, chest suddenly clenching tight because she’s staring at a picture of Holtzmann, balancing a petite little girl on her hip in front of Patty’s locker. Both of them are wearing the shiniest damn grins this side of the Hudson, on top of the world and the kid—Aniyah, she _must_ be—is pointing up to her TOLAN nameplate across the locker door with the most radiant dimpled smile Patty thinks she’s ever seen. 

Before she can even grope for words Holtzy interrupts the moment with a swipe across the screen and a double tap, whisks them into a grainy video just seconds after the photo was taken. Music’s blaring in the background, kids hollering as Abby’s voice echoes loud from behind the camera, walking towards Holtzmann and Aniyah with an upbeat bounce. “ _Okay ladies, say hi to Patty!”_

“ _Hi Patty!”_ Aniyah shrieks, running up to hug tiny arms around her locker as the shaky camera zooms in on her toothless grin, pans over to Holtzmann crouched on her knees, offering the girl a solemn high-five that the pint-sized buster returns with a gleeful slap. 

“ _Hey, Patty_ ,” movie-Holtzmann smirks, motions a gloved salute into the camera as Aniyah shakes an open-handed wave at the lens, and there’s such a stilted sort of fondness in that throaty chuckle, Patty almost feels like she’s watching something private—especially when the woman beside clears her throat noisily, toys with the volume settings with a thumb like it’s gonna distract from the light gleaming outta her eyes on film. “ _We miss you_.”

The video ends with Aniyah blowing a kiss to the screen that’s so damn adorable Patty’s overwhelmed, beams and swipes at her eyes while she tries to get her shit together. “Oh, baby. That’s, _um._ _Wow_.”

Holtzmann nods, brings her phone back down to her nose and fiddles with the settings while Patty sniffs, settles back against the headboard with her heart feeling too damn big for her chest, warm all over. It’s another minute before Holtzmann looks up, nudging her glasses back into place with a shrug.

“She was _not_ the only one. Got your own mini fan club in the kids of New York.”

“Yeah?”

“A lot of them signed the guestbook. Bet they’ve left messages for _youuu_.” 

Patty doesn’t even know what to say but she can’t seem to stop smiling, ducks her head to grin like crazy because she never thought—like, a _fan club_? Shit. Never in a thousand years at the MTA. “Can’t wait to read ‘em all.” 

Holtzy’s quiet, watches her with that shrewd gaze for a hot second before arching her back like an alley cat, and maybe it’s selfish but Patty suddenly doesn’t want to share her with the crowd anymore, wants this woman for herself. “They still need you downstairs?”

Holtzmann shakes her head, tugging on her lapels as she slides backwards out of bed. “I’m all yours, Pattycakes.”

Which segues perfectly into Patty’s next thought, turning on the charm with a thick flutter of lashes because her stomach feels like a pit. “In that case baby, wanna get me some _real_ food?” 

“What’s wrong with that?” Holtzmann points at the crappy paper plate perched in Patty’s lap, and she doesn’t even bother filling in an answer before the engineer stops herself, pirouettes on the rug with a sigh like she’s only just remembered. “Uuunnh. You’re into that healthy stuff. I forg _ot_.”

“Yeah, fancy that. An _actual_ meal, not a damn sugar rush in a muffin cup.”

Holtzy smirks and starts shoving on her bowling shoes again, coattails swaying around her bare ankles with those jodhpurs riding up, staring Patty’s way with a foreboding brow. “It’s a good thing I still like you. Could be a deal breaker.”

“I’m a growin’ girl Holtzy, can’t expect me to live off cookies and punch. Now go find me a nice pasta primavera and some garlic bread, pronto. Hop to.”

Her baby’s almost laughing when she straightens up, shoulders thrown back with a grinning two-fingered salute carded diligently through the air, punctuated with a wink that cuts right through Patty’s sternum and drags some _wildly_ dangerous flutters up and down her insides, lips curled. 

“ _Love_ that mouth on you.”

And if that goddamn Monster Mash wasn’t blaring three floors up with company downstairs, as soon as Holtzy’s out the door that look alone would have Patty’s good hand down the front of her sweats, impatiently rubbing one out before her conscience kicks in, cos girl’s got her hotter than July in the Bronx, and _fuck_. 

Situation critical has never felt more real.

 

***

 

It’s an hour or so till Holtzmann even gets back and Patty’s been dozing, libido cooled and she ain’t up for much else. Soon enough she’s rewarded with the engineer and a box of warm takeout that smells heavenly, and looks even better—chock full of vegetables too, and her girl really was paying attention. She gets extra points for this.

“Baby, this looks amazing.” Patty’s just digging into her gorgeously-sauced pasta topped with  parmigiano when she suddenly slows her roll, tips a slow glance up to Holtzmann perched at the end of the bed. Girl’s watching her like she’s waiting for scraps, and it’s cute, but uh. “Hold up. Did you actually _pay_ for this?”

“Oh, _darn._ ” Holtzy snaps her fingers, and Patty can’t tell if she’s kidding or not. “Knew I forgot _something_.”

And that’s not so reassuring but this is so damn good, if it’s stolen Patty’s ready to hide the evidence. “So long as you didn’t get this from a back alley dumpster, I don’t care.”

That seems to satisfy her girl enough cos she’s bounding up and out the door again without another word, though she’s back within two mouthfuls of pasta, brandishing a glinting disc in her palm and a manic little grin that could very well spell trouble. Manhandles Patty’s laptop onto her knees and pops it in with a cheery little shuffle up the bed, settling it between them.

“What’s this?”

“Dinner and a show, Pats. You ought to know by now, I don’t do by halves.”

A DVD menu appears on screen and Patty’s blinking. “ _Arsenic and Old Lace_?”

“Murderous old women and dubious plastic surgery. It’s a classic.”

“So you can’t tell Lady Day and Nina Simone apart, but you’re a damn encyclopedia when it comes to old movies?”

Holtzmann blinks at her as if she’s comparing the comparison, before answering matter-of-factly. “Spent the better part of of my eighth year in front of the TV. Lived with a family who only watched black and whites.” 

That’s news to Patty and there’s a slew of questions could ask, but all of them feel a little too deep, personal. Her baby don’t seem the type to want people digging where they don’t belong, and she’s grateful for the little details when they’re spared—uncovering little histories of Jillian Holtzmann, piecing them together is what makes all this time spent together so much more worthwhile.

Although as Holtzy hits play and shuffles back beside her, Patty’s remembering the reason a lot of old films just can’t hold her interest.

“There ain’t any black people in this?”

“Um.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“They find a dead body in the window seat,” Holtzmann pipes up, like that’s a fair trade and hell, Patty’ll take it.

“Of course they do.”

“It’s set in Brooklyn—”

“So should _definitely_ have some black people in it.”

“—there’s Frankenstein and insane brothers and useless cops.”

“Just like real Brooklyn.”

 

***

 

Another day, another tedium, and Patty’s feeling bored as fuck caged up in here. A new book about the Stonewall Riots can’t hold her focus for long; this massive bedroom’s too damn small and even the distractions Holtzmann keeps throwing her way seem _not enough_ , she needs more. Girl’s laid beside her like usual, sketching something inside a water-stained notebook and Patty can’t even lean forward enough to see what it might be. Goddammit.

She’s antsy, and wants that bespectacled attention turned her way, huffing a loud sigh.

“Can’t wait to get outta this damn room, goin’ nuts in here.”

Works like a charm and Holtzy’s rolling over onto her side, crop top flashing that slim slice of stomach and what Patty wouldn’t give to be able to trace her fingers over it, dip a little lower. Do _something_. “Ah, cabin fever.” 

“I know you been helpin’ sweetie but, feel like I need to get gone. Breathe some fresh air.”

“I can open the windows.”

It’s a nice thought but probably won’t do too much. The disappointment must show on her face.

“I can build you a breathing device that pumps fresh air in from outside.”

“You mean air conditioning.”

“ _No_. Something better. I’m not down on the particulars yet. Give me longer to think.”

“It’s alright.”

Holtzmann shifts to her knees and chews her lip, and Patty’s noticed she’s not been wearing any makeup these last few days, but they still look soft and rosy pink.

“We can move to the living room?”

It’s endearing how Holtzmann automatically includes herself in all of Patty’s problems, that _we_ echoing in her ears and nudging a smile right onto her face. “If you think it’d help, baby.”

“There’s only one way to find out.” Holtzy’s already sliding off the bed with a leap, grin starting up as she heads around the bed to help get Patty up, and what in the world did she do to deserve this girl? 

Oh yeah, saved her life about sixty-seven times, but who’s counting.

 

***

 

“Pats on the 15th, found a museum we should chug on by.”

Ever since earlier Holtzmann’s been doing this, suggesting things they can do together once Patty’s up and running about town again (Holtzmann’s words, because Patty ain’t running _nowhere_ anytime soon). Some haven’t been particularly _good_ but still, it’s pretty goddamn thoughtful. Patty sets her book down. “Yeah? What’s in this one.”

“ _Old things_.”

Girl gleams like she’s just solved a great riddle and did Patty a favor in the process. “Gonna need more explanation than that, baby.”

“Medieval manuscripts, letters, doddery old books and even post from Newton. Sounds diverting. Right up our street.”

“And where’s that at?”

“The Morgan. Central Park. I know places.”

Patty’s about to congratulate that pretty little head for a good suggestion when the words actually click, and hold up, the Morgan’s _not_ by the Park—

“And there’s a Chinese museum with a food exhibition. Also _good_.”

“Gotta break it to you baby, don’t think they’ll have free samples.”

Holtzmann looks like she’s seriously considering whether or not Patty’s pulling her tail and Patty opts to leave her with that look on her face, it’s cute. “If that’s the place I think it is, Eldridge Street isn’t far from there. Been meaning to take you for a while now.”

Holtzy tilts her head for the explanation and Patty obliges, carefully turns herself around on the sofa with a wince, appreciating the way her girl perks to attention with arms out to help. “I’m alright Holtzy, thanks. It’s a synagogue. Has the most beautiful architecture you’ve ever seen. They have walking tours and history, thought you might appreciate it.”

“Misplaced my kippot, might not let me in.” Her baby’s playing, judging by that smile crept over her face with a telltale dimple, she’s warmed right up to the suggestion and suddenly Patty can’t wait to be out, seeing the sights with Holtzmann. Even more than she already wants to be. 

“I’ll knit you another one, how’s about that?”

“You _cannot_ knit.”

“How the hell you know what I can and cannot do?”

“I’ve _seen_ things.”

“What kind of nonsense answer is that?”

Holtzy tips her a smugly cryptic look, tells Patty that's the only answer she's gonna be getting.

 

***

 

Back when she was working for the MTA, about seven o’clock on October 31st was when Seward Street started lookin’ like the express train to spook central, and that’s _before_ real ghosts started showing up—Patty Tolan’s worked every single Halloween for the past five years up until now and man, she’s _seen_ some shit.

Aside from the usual crowds for parades from Canal Street to Brooklyn, every iteration of costumed drunk you could imagine, and a few brave parents pushing their tiny Disney princesses in strollers, you gotta run the gauntlet of noise that’s dead ass wild even for Manhattan—selling metro cards to a group of sorority sisters dressed like sexy Clorox bottles is definitely up there, along with the dude who tried bringing his pig on the Q train arguing it was the original Babe, from the movie _Babe_ —like is there no _limit_ to what white folk won’t try?

Curled in bed with a tepid cup of tea looks like kid’s play in comparison, and even nursing a bum shoulder dished out by a demon can’t shake Patty’s calm. Knowing you ain’t gonna have to fight the masses for the G train later would improve anybody’s mood, but tucked in cozy with her Kindle, she’s feeling almost restful.

The dynamic duo headed out to investigate a minor bust not long ago, coveralled Kevin in tow and boy was looking happier than a pigeon with a french fry, though Abby and Erin looked less than enthusiastic to be towing him along in the first place—Patty can’t exactly say she’s wishing it was her, either.

It takes a good thirty minutes for the engineer to materialise after the team’s left, and when she _does_ Patty almost finds herself wishing she hadn’t. Decked out in her busting jumpsuit but with the arms slung low around her hips like it’s giving her a hug, Holtzy’s wearing nothing but a thin grey tank top under that, and _christ on a bike_ she’s definitely not wearing a bra. Feet bare, draped around the doorjamb like Zoolander except she makes blue steel look _good_ , and what the hell’s a woman got to do to get a break around here? 

Obviously ignore the thud in her chest as her baby smirks, moseys a curling finger over the switch to kill the lights, heaping on absurdity with a hint of ominous.

“Hey, Pats—got somethin’ for ya that’ll make you _scream_.”

Girl slinks off back out into the hall before she can even respond, twitching those skewed brows like jumping beans and Patty’s left sitting in the dark, heart sliding right up into her throat while the seconds tick by. Plenty of them and a grunting fumble later, she shouldn’t have bothered worrying when the engineer reappears, bench-pressing a pretty sizeable jack-o-lantern in front of her. ‘PATTY’ has been carved across the front,crooked letters gleaming in the blaze of what looks to be about sixteen tea lights stuffed inside the orange beast, and lord. Maybe it screams something, but health-and-safety-adhering isn’t it. 

“Baby, that’s… for me?”

Patty watches as Holtzy nods an affirmative and shoves Erin’s neatly folded clothes off the stool by the physicist’s bed, drags it over to set the vegetable at the end of Patty’s mattress with a pleased flourish. The thing’s looming at her, tiny inferno inside raging away and casting shadows about the room. “Hope you still got all your fingers.”

Her baby holds up all ten of those waggling digits as if to prove she’s responsible, but Patty’s already positive that’s never going to be a thing, no matter how many limbs she still has intact.

“I tried using a laser first off but it set on fire.”

_What did she just say—_

“So used the classic. Mini _saw_.” Holtzmann pops her a bug-eyed look, and Patty catches the singed edges at the top of the ‘P’ that must be the laser’s victim but it’s the thought that counts, and it’s pretty… well, _really_ fuckin’ sweet of her, actually. 

“Well, thanks Holtzy. Never had one carved for me before.” 

Holtzmann sways in her slouch, swings elbows from side to side and throws her a glance that’s almost bashful, and Patty nearly chokes on an overwhelming surge of affection for this brilliant, insane little beam of light in a human person; she’s _everything_ in one place. One-stop-shop for every little thing that’s ever made Patty’s heart go pitter-pat, down to the twitch of her nose and the candlelit pink in her cheeks, and the way she thinks flaming pumpkins make the best personalized gifts. 

Her chuckle turns into a cough, hissing when she goes to reach for her drink on the nightstand and comes up short—this goddamn sling’s more of a hinderance than a help, but Patty can’t even growl before Holtzy’s rocked up at her side, takes up the drink and sets it into her waiting hand. “Thanks, baby.”

Patty’s already gulped her fill, just passing off the glass when a shrill _ring_ sounds from Holtzmann’s coveralls, and girl’s shoving aside the water with a splash to rummage around those bucket pockets, clacking her teeth. The engineer’s answering the thing with a deft twirl, spinning the cordless receiver in her palm with a fumble that a trained eye can recognize as trying not to drop it, razzle-dazzle aside. Patty’s long since realised any _smoothness_ on Holtzy’s end is generally pure dumb luck. 

“Yell-ow, Ghostbusters! We don’t usually work Mondays so; feel special.”

Patty watches as the engineer strides around the room, ruffling her hair and picking at her teeth, humming and aww-ing to whoever’s on the other end of the line. “That’s _interesting_. I never thought of it like that before. Thank you _so much._ ” Girl flops on the bed like she’s lost all her bones, phone tight to her ear for only another few seconds. “Why don’t you call back another day. Alright— _toodles_!” And the call beeps off between them.

“Who was that?”

“Wrong number.”

Girl’s taken to stretching her arms out up above her head, looking like she’s trying to reach the ceiling or salute it, lips pouting in concentration. Patty smiles to herself, shoves aside her Kindle in the covers by her hip as she shuffles higher, lays back against the headboard and sighs in the pretty comfortable silence.

Well, it starts off comfy but the longer it stretches on, Patty’s more and more aware of an elephant in the room, only this one’s sober and looks an awful lot like a big goddamn clock looming overhead, sparks her need to get this _out_. 

“Um, you okay Holtzy? We’ve not really talked about… what happened.” 

“Nothing much to say.” Holtzmann rakes her bottom lip through her teeth, fidgeting with her glasses as she folds in the side shields, tosses them somewhere in the blankets without looking.“Scary. If I think about it.” 

“I know, baby. Kinda why I haven't been either.”

Holtzy’s quiet, until she’s sitting up, scooting closer and laying back into the propped pillows with eyes hooded, stares up to the ceiling while they watch the shadows flicker. Maybe it’s the candlelight, maybe it’s the silent heat of her so close but Patty can’t help it, drifts her hand over, grazes her girl’s knuckles with her own.  Shocks the breath out of her when Holtzy suddenly clutches at the offering, voice small in the dark as their fingers lace together, tight enough to hurt.

“When I saw you, on the floor. I... didn't know what to do. You're always there and, suddenly you _weren't_. I—I felt like I was falling apart like I— _scrambled_. Brain a wet piece of cake.” 

Holtzmann's words are fumbling, a frenzied rush to the finish line like she’s pulling out all the stops just to end the thought before it shatters, and Patty feels her chest _ache_. It’s almost a compulsion, wanting so desperately to tug her close and bury her face in Holtzy’s soft hair. Wants to hide them both from a fuckload of trauma they never asked for, and got anyway. Squeezes her hold on the engineer’s hand instead, leans her head close to her baby’s with eyes welling up, heart thudding in her ears because words are so, so _not enough_.

“I’m _here_ , Holtzy.”

No answer but Patty’s not really expecting one, forces herself to breathe slow, rubs a shaking thumb over Holtzmann’s raw knuckles and tries to keep her voice even. Shove a positive spin on this.

“Was thinking, maybe we should try somethin’ different on our next bust. Talk to the girls about it. Nothing big, just stay together better.”

Holtzy turns towards her, eyes so open and vulnerable without those glasses on, as if Patty could look right through her and see everything inside, girl’s agreeing and it only intensifies. “That’s a good idea.”

“Should tell ‘em. When they’re back.”

Shifting around, Holtzy’s knees bunching up against her thigh and girl sandwiches their hands together, rolling the both of hers with Patty’s in the middle and damn, feels so good just being _held_ by her. “I have a theory, actually.”

“Yeah?”

“I think the ghosties go for _me_ , on purpose.”

Saying Patty doesn’t like the sound of that is a goddamn understatement, brows creasing up across her forehead. “How’d you figure that one, baby?”

“I make the magic. They don’t like that. Best to get rid of me.”

“Well if they think they can keep gunnin’ for you, ghosties got another thing coming. I’m just gonna have to stick closer, keep your pretty ass outta trouble.”

Her baby’s elastic face at once twists in a smile, wide and sudden like she can’t control it as her focus flicks over to their twined hands, thrumming with a different sort of energy that has her shoulders bouncing—not shying away like usual, almost _thriving_ off the attention, as much as Holtzmann can. Patty wishes she’d do it more often. 

“I noticed you've not been wearing your necklace.” 

“Hurts to. I’m making a new chain. One that breaks if there's a strong enough force applied.”  


“That’s real smart baby, good thinking.” Relief settles in Patty’s chest, exorcising the thought of Holtzy in that hallway as much as she can because between the pair of them, it won’t ever happen again. “Abby hasn’t called, so they must be handling things okay.”

“They didn’t need me after all.”

Patty watches her closely then, sees a smug little smile flit across that pale face like she’s won a private bet. And she’s got no plans to give Holtzy the third degree, but Patty has a _suspicion_. “You still not feelin’ up to going out?”

Holtzy blinks, then almost abruptly halts in rolling her hands over Patty’s with a muffled cough, motions hastily with her forearm. “Uh, _wrist_. Not quite there yet.”

As far as she can tell Holtzy’s been moving her wrist just _fine_ —case in point, two seconds ago with the big-ass pumpkin—but Patty’s the last person in the world who’s gonna argue that detail, even if she might just have figured out why her girl and Abby were at loggerheads earlier on. Being here with Holtzmann is exactly what she wants, not about to ruin that digging for the truth. “Well, good. Means I get to keep you home with me tonight.”

And Patty’s not trying for seductive, too tired and honestly she just likes _being_ with Holtzy, wants to exist here with her and if that’s what love means, then Patty’s sold—except that’s when girl looks up, runs those baby blues down her face, drawls slow and lazy with a smirk like fireworks.

“Holtzy’s all yours.”  

Holy fuck. Patty stares, feels her breath lurch into that wild, feverish realm of too turned on for sense, and she’s about to do something pretty fucking stupid when the cordless phone’s suddenly blurting between them on the bed, makes her jump a goddamn mile. “ _Jesus!_ —”

“—Yell- _ow_ , Ghostbusters, you can make the check out to J.Holtzmann. That’s double-N.”

_“Holtzmann? Oh god, you’ll never believe—is Patty there?”_

Well now her nerves are shot to shit and what the fuck kind of timing is this, Patty’s deadpanning her answer because she damn well _can_. “I’m here.”

“ _Put me on speaker!”_ Holtzmann thumbs at the button and Abby’s voice comes flooding out, already hollering into the phone so loud, a speaker feels like redundancy. “ _That call you sent us to? Turned out to be a PARTY.”_

Holtzmann cringes in Patty’s direction and she feels exactly the same, girl propping her elbow on her knee as the phone’s dangled aloft between the two of them.

“ _That’s right. We go in, looking for the owners and what do we get? Ambushed_ —” 

_“Leapt upon!”_

_“Yes, Erin; leapt upon! Turns out that not only was there NO GHOST, they were_ disappointed _that only the two of us showed up for their stupid, loser party—”_

_“And then they tried to keep Kevin!”_ Erin pipes up again, from somewhere further away and Patty groans, rakes her hand down her face because if Abby’s looking to win awards for the worst timing ever, grand prize is hers down to taxes. Any moment with Holtzmann was dead on arrival as soon as the phone started ringing, crank call or otherwise.

“Hope y’all got him with you, he’s too young to be out alone.”

“ _He’s in the backseat._ ” Erin declares, with the man himself calling something unheard in the background, hint of pride in the physicist’s voice.  “ _They had this really good punch—”_

“— _They just wanted to get you drunk, Erin!”_

_“It didn’t even taste like alcohol.”_

_“Could have fooled me—”_

The two of them dissolve into trading pithy put-downs across what Patty can only assume is the front seat of the Ecto, rolling her eyes in tune with Holtzy but somehow, this ain’t as bad as it sounds. This family’s nuts, batshit crazy in five different flavors but it’s _hers_ , and Patty can’t help her smile as Holtzmann interrupts the lighthearted squabble on the end of the line.

“No one else has called, Abby.”

_“Well I guess that’s a good thing, not exactly what we expected for tonight.”_

“Especially with Gilbert over the limit.”

_“I am_ not _, Holtz!"_

“You two headin’ back?”

_“Yeah right now. Should be back in thirty. Need you to get the door, Holtzmann.”_

“Roger that.”

_“Oh and—we’re swinging by Zhu’s, you guys want anything?”_

“— _NO_.”  Both she and Holtzy put the kibosh on _that_ in near-perfect unison, trade the same knowing look across the phone while Abby and the Ecto crowd chime an ear-splitting goodbye, and the call beeps out. 

Gingerly settling back, Patty gusts out a nose-wrinkled sigh. “Why’s she keep getting food there? D’you know they got a C on their health inspection? That’s what happens right before you get shut down.”

“Stands for ‘condemned’.”

Patty huffs a chuckle, reaches over to ruffle that floppy head, uncaring if it pulls a muscle in the back of her neck; she can deal. Doesn’t seem to deter Holtzy none, girl nearly grinning into the touch, toothy with enthusiasm.

“Which _so handily_ reminds me! Brooklyn Historical Society has an exhibit. We need to go.”

Maybe she should be worrying if terrible food safety ratings are what jumpstarts that tickin’ brain of Holtzy’s into a suggestion, but meds are doing their magic and she’s feeling chill, tilts her head closer to the pillows and that lively gaze. “They probably have lots of exhibits, baby. Got a particular one in mind?”

“Sewers.”

“What.”

“About Brooklyn’s sewers. I thought you’d enjoy.”

Patty’s about to slip into questioning this entire friendship if Holtzmann thinks she’s gonna enjoy looking at turds, but then the engineer pipes up like a damn mind reader, ready and able to assuage tremendous doubts.

“Kids curated it in after school studies. Looks interesting. Working people and their challenges! You like that. And the Transit museum’s close by.”

“Huh.” That’s more thoughtful than she gave her credit for, which Patty instantly feels bad about. Doubting her girl. ”They have a new exhibit on too?”

“Nah, thought you’d enjoy it. _Beep beep_!”

Holtzy sits back and pretends to honk the horn on an unseen steering wheel, and Patty lets the laugh bubble up from her belly at this gorgeous weirdo, who’s driving her right into a high-speed chase of warm fuzzies with both feet on the gas. 

“Sounds good baby, I got a physical therapy appointment on Friday. Maybe we can go after that.”

The engineer perks up again and _how_ does she not have whiplash in that scrawny neck of hers, Patty’s got it just from watching. “You looking for a driver?”

“I don’t know, you _offerin_ ’?”

“You should know better than to get into strange cars with strange women,  Pattycakes.”

“You certainly got the _strange_ part down.”

Holtzmann seems to take that as a compliment and bares her teeth in a grin, tacks on a cocky little head tilt. “I _try_.”

Patty lets out a fond sigh and runs a hand through her poor fried hair, frowning while Holtzy bites her nails because the museum mention’s stirred up another thought like a nest of hornets.  “Shit, I gotta post a reminder that book club’s cancelled till further notice. Can’t be hosting doped up on meds.”

Her baby looks unbothered by this new turn, nibbling her fingertips with a lemon’s worth of zest. “Book’s good. I’ve been reading it.”

That’s unexpected, for starters. “Dunno if I’ve ever seen you readin’ outside your engineering notebooks, baby. Can you hand me my laptop?”

“You captured my interest.” Their gazes lock and Patty suddenly knows what Holtzy’s talking about when she says _captured_ , distracted until the computer’s placed open in her lap and her baby’s leaning in to key the brightness down, blue eyes keen as the start-up jingle plays between them. “You’d be an exceptional lecturer.”

As far as compliments go, that’s pretty high praise from a postdoc and Patty’s brows soar, remembering some of her better professors back in college, how their encouragement and passion for their work had her studying twice as hard, caught up in the infectious fervor of so much left to discover. “You really think so?”

“I know so. Never interested in this stuff before you.”

Wow, that’s. A _lot_ , and Patty can’t help but grin, suddenly feeling almost shy for no damn reason, except her baby knows she’s good at this. “Thanks, Holtzy.”

There’s a soft, warm quiet that settles in then, together in the flickering light while Patty waits for her desktop to boot, so when the engineer speaks, Holtzy jerks her heart into a tap dance that’d give Bill Robinson vertigo.

“I love hearing you talk.”

And while Patty thinks that’s sweet as pie, it’s not really helping these feelings she’s got buried shallow up in here, not daring to take her eyes off the screen because she can feel Holtzy staring. “Glad somebody does. Used to get hollered at for readin’ to my goldfish when I was younger, drove my brother nuts.” 

Holtzy props her head in her hands laid on her belly, staring up at Patty with eyes like saucers in the screen’s blue light. “Did it grow? _Orrrr_ is that _plants_?”

Patty grins, shrugs her good shoulder. “Not sure it made her bigger, but she lived for years. Think she liked comics best.”

Holtzy pulls a face that’s interested but she doesn’t say anything, one of those upended smiles that reminds her of a thoughtful little frog. She turns that curiosity to the laptop screen instead, pointed chin almost resting on the return key as Patty gets to updating the official Ghostbusters website with sorry news.

“Feel bad lettin’ these people down. Should have done this sooner.”

Feeling Holtzmann’s hand curl over her thigh behind the laptop screen, Patty knows girl’s doing it as some sort of comfort, but it still makes her shiver. “You’re a hero, Patty. They’ll understand.”

“You keep callin’ me that. Don’t feel like much of one.” Looking tiredly at her girl, Patty reaches up, gently grazes her thumb over the stitching still so prominent on Holtzmann’s forehead; she’s been trying her best to ignore it every time she looks at her, but it’s not been working out so great. “You still got hurt, babe.”

“Would have been a lot worse without you.”

Knowing she’s right is almost worse, can’t even allow herself to _think_ what would have happened if Patty hadn’t have been there. Which turns out to be the final nail in the proverbial and rather apt coffin: she can’t leave her girl alone, Holtzmann wouldn’t last two minutes by herself, and Patty’s done with wandering as she shoves her laptop away, mind made up in spades. 

“Be awhile till you gotta head down?”

Holtzy nods. “Yep. Nothing else to be done. Want me to get something?”

Patty shakes her head, slow and easy on her neck even as she watches her baby shine like a comet’s tail, beautiful in the light of just enough candles to feel intimate, _safe_. Feels her heart swimming around her ribs like melted honey as she pats the covers at her side, pulse skipping in her veins. “Good. C’mere.”

The gaze levelled her way is wordless, a quiet blink of bright eyes and a slow smile flickering as Holtzy steps around the bed, skin glowing warm and she lays a hand gentle in the blankets, climbs up to the space Patty’s got waiting with smooth, fluid limbs. Nestles against her, bottle-blonde fluff settling into the space under Patty’s good arm and it tickles her chin, makes her  hands  shake. Holtzy curls both  palms delicately around her elbow, hugs against her side with fingers lightly trailing her forearm, turns her  insides to slush. 

Patty’s never wanted to say something more, and can’t think of a single word. So she just lays her head over her Holtzy’s, kisses the top of her hair and lets her eyes drift  shut, heart singing to the quiet beat beside her own.

Patty hopes her baby can hear it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy feelings, batman! 
> 
> we've got the world's longest list of in-universe current (november 2016) nyc museum exhibits in case anyone's interested; every place holtzy suggests is real and if you're in the area, check them out!
> 
> the idea of jewish holtzmann has always been pretty important to us, and we're glad to share that with you. thank you for every ounce of love, feel free to comment or come find us on [tumblr](http://thepratandtheidiot.tumblr.com/) if you wanna chat! 
> 
> this chapter brought to you as part of the [patty tolan/ghostbusters appreciation week](https://actualsunshinepattytolan.tumblr.com/post/156415151397/patty-tolan-and-abby-yates-appreciation-weeks-are/).
> 
> tune in next time for... well. _you'll see._


	8. every second is a highlight

“Forty-one across, _sign before Virgo_ … Leo, man! That’s too easy.”

Patty bites her lip, absently poking the pencil into her twisted updo of pink and purple braids. Soothes the familiar prickling itch that comes with a fresh weave because man, a little irritation’s worth feeling more like her usual. Feels good to be chilling down here again, testing out her left hand on the Times crossword; truly speaks to how much she’s missed her reading nook that the wafting smell of melted plastic makes her feel right at home.

Add in permission to ditch the sling except for an hour before bed, plus a dutiful following of her assigned reps over four days of physical therapy, and it’s enough to make a girl feel like she’s hurtling back to recovery at the speed of light—which she’s actually been reading up on, thanks to Erin’s generous stack of loaned textbooks. A woman can’t live on history alone, and that’s a fact.

“Hey, Holtzy. Next-to-last periodic element, alphabetically. Four letters.”

A pause from the lab as the engineer shoves up her goggles, sucks in a cheek-hollowing breath as those bright eyes squint crossed, and if the sight loops through Patty’s insides and knots them up around her heart, well. It’s been a week since Holtzmann went back to work, since Halloween galloped past headless-horseman style and their makeshift king headed for splitsville, morphed back into two double beds for two single people, which is what they are. Obviously.

Thudding pulse aside, Patty’s grown enough to know their night of cuddling was a cozy one-off, short and just a little _too_ sweet.

“Zuhh— _zinc_.”

Counting out boxes with a tap of her pencil, Patty’s scribbling her answer into the puzzle before throwing out a breezy grin, already half-finished thanks to the help. “Bingo. Thanks, babe.”

Gonna take a lot longer to forget the way girl tucked herself under Patty’s chin, burrowed warm and close with those softly puffed breaths tickling her neck, but she’s turning over a new leaf; kicking all those soggy hopes of _something_ _more_ to the goddamn curb and into oncoming traffic, because nah. Pining after your best friend one too many months don’t match her new look either, and Patty’s done with that shit like last week’s leftovers because hanging with Holtzy, just like this, is some kinda wonderful.

“Is that legal?”

The idle question floats past, toys at her focus till Patty finally tears herself away with a blink. Looks up to find an artful smirk dancing all over her engineer’s face and hell, she’ll bite. “Is _what_ legal?”

“Consulting outside sources. Sounds illegal.”

She's got one blonde brow arching like it’s snagged on a fishhook, makes Patty wanna reel her in. “Mm, maybe. You gonna report me?”

Holtzmann bounces in her seat, twirls a metal disc between her fingers with that pesky wink. “Nah. I’ll help. Partners in crime.”

“Holtzy, you saw what our combined genius did to Abby and Erin last time we played Trivial Pursuit. The world ain’t ready.”

“Ah, yes. Back to the shadows we _go_.”

Girl’s been downright chivalrous too, shuttling her to therapy as promised in the Ecto (“ _Patricia, your friend-chariot awaits!”_ she’d called over an ear-splitting honk, sweeping off an imaginary cap with a tug on the door). Even offering full control of the music in between appointments and that hefty list of museums—they already got a cool half-dozen planned this week, while Stevie Nicks and Jay-Z been killing it on vocals.

There might be better things out there than duetting “Edge of Seventeen” with Holtzmann doing forty down Broadway, but don’t ask her to name a single one.

“Hey Pats, do me a favor and close those peepers. No peeking.”

She’s already hopped onto solving the next word— _green gemstone_ , five letters across—and the engineer’s interruption ain’t helping her get any further, but Patty knows by now arguing with Holtzy will get her precisely six feet south of nowhere; settles back against the sofa with her lids shut instead. Doesn’t mean she’ll go quietly, though.

“This better not be another one of those slime tests. I just got my nails done and that shit ate up my gel-tips.”

A sheepish-sounding cough from across the lab, booted footsteps padding nearer. “Ah, _nope_. Learned my les _son_ last time.”

Last time, when Patty redelivered the entire ectoplasmic mess right back in Holtzy’s sweet little face, because turns out ghost slime’ll really do a number on your Strawberry Margarita manicure. OPI oughta be warned. Girl looked like a lime popsicle in overalls, dripping green all over the floor and if the phrase _good enough to eat_ crossed her mind, then that was before she’d put the kibosh on that kinda dangerous thinking.

There’s something weird and vulnerable about sitting with your eyes shut, totally at the whim of someone else, and not least of all when that someone is Holtzmann. Makes Patty’s heart race, and mouthing off feels like instinct, laughing snort on her lips. “You deserved it.”

 _Hmhmmm_ comes the noncommittal reply, sounding closer with a clink of metal, groan of moving metallic parts hitting together before the engineer clears her throat. Patty can hear her shift from foot to foot on the cheery Ikea rug, boot buckles flapping against her ankles—sounds like girl needs some prompting, and she’s more than happy to take the lead.

“This mean I can open my eyes now?”

“ _No_. You can never open them again.”

She does anyway, brows floating up at the sight of her baby smugly exhibiting her newest creation with a grin like Union Square’s favorite busker, and Patty’s gotta blink a couple times to make sure she’s got this right.

Because while the thing _looks_ like a proton pack, ghost gun and all, it’s been downsized to about half the mass of their regular ones: like, “Comin’ soon to a Toys ‘R’ Us near you” size, whenever nuclear weapons get approved for kid’s play. Ghouls and ghosties sold separately, of course.

Patty’s not sure what to say.

“Whoa. Holtzy, that’s…”

“—compact. Miniature. Space-saving. Itty-bitty. I _know_. And _so_ much lighter. I think you’ll be able to wear it, no problemo.”

There’s no doubt it’s smaller, and by design it _has_ to be lighter unless she’s thrown in some weights, so Patty’s pushing to her feet, watching while Holtzy fidgets with the strap adjusts—and if girl’s up on her tiptoes as she readies it for wear, Patty’s not gonna bring it to anyone’s attention.

“Now bear in mind, this little baby won’t spout as much _oomph_ as your regular run-of-the-mill proton pack. I could have upped the frequency of the reactor inside and condensed the nozzle for greater output, but that’s not healthy for anyone involved. Thought it best to keep things on the _down_ _low_. At least, within the secured parameters of operation.”

“I’m a real fan of secured parameters, baby girl. Sounds great.” Nail-biting over Holtzmann’s definition of safety falls pretty firmly under futile; the fact that the engineer’s traded power for well-being is about as much comfort as she’s gonna get. “It’s kinda cute, all shrunk down and stuff.”

“Fun-sized, for your convenience.”

“And you just cooked this up over the weekend?”

Holtzmann squares her chin, does that thing where a bulldozer couldn’t move her. “It’s important.”

And Patty’s not about to burst her baby’s happy little bubble by bringing up one Abigail L.Yates, who might voice issue with that claim. Their fearless leader’s been pretty consistent about reminding Holtzmann of the sixteen other grant prototypes that need finishing before Patty’s, not that it’s made a dent of difference.

Either way, this is amazing. Two days to miniaturize a proton pack means a lot of work; Patty’s no engineer but she knows it’s more involved than just scaling everything down. Reactions still happen at the same scale regardless of the size of the machine, and that’s some science shit right there—Holtzmann’s a goddamn genius.

But maybe Patty’s pinned her hopes too high, cos as soon as she slides on the straps and Holtzy lets go, she’s flinching, holy _fuck_ —her shoulder ain’t _close_ to healed enough for this shit, and the pain must show on her face cos Holtzmann’s confusion’s creasing up her forehead. Her girl’s thick stitches are out but the mark that’s left still looks pink and sore, always gives Patty a cringe of her own when she stares at it too long. “That’s not good?”

Takes all her effort to grit out, keep from crying. “No, baby, it’s _not_.”

Holtzmann gingerly slips off her pint-size pack without another word and Patty knows she ain’t responsible, but can’t shake the feeling that she’s somehow failed. Kicks herself for dimming the light in those brilliant eyes, for actually thinking she was ready for this while the engineer’s back to fussing with the straps, pensive frown etched into her brows and pushing those flat goggles further into her wild shock of blonde.

“I’m sorry, Holtzy. Still can’t have any weight on my shoulder.”

“Not your fault—not your fault. I can fix this. Give me a day and we can try again.”

“No rush. You got other stuff to do, and I’ll keep. I know Abby wants you runnin’ tests on that asshole downstairs, for a start.”

Holtzy’s looking at the pack like it’ll solve its own problems if she stares hard enough. “He’s not going anywhere. Erin said she’d take care of them today.” Then suddenly bolts towards the work table, vigor reinstated. “—I can come up with something better—Mark II!”

Patty can’t help the smirk tugging at her lips as she settles back onto the couch, reaching for her puzzle and pretty keen on the way the engineer’s igniting her propane torch with a longing sigh, the lunatic. “So you been out and tested that thing? You know I’m not your guinea pig.”

Girl drops the torch after a quick spurt of flame, breezing a hand through the air before grabbing another tool, an overlarge screwdriver of some sort, starts up that tinkering again. “Yep, with Abby. Worked, _like a charm_.”

“Uh-huh.” Lower reactor output aside, Patty ain’t so easily convinced—their idea of a safe test constitutes no one being seriously maimed, and she’s pretty sure she heard Inspector Gadget over there once high-five Abby for _not dying_ , which is. Alarming, at best.

“Speakin’ of, you know when those two are getting back? Been at Abby’s place since noon, thought they were bringing their files back here.”

“Should be a couple of hours. If they’re lucky, even _longer_.”

That energetic brow jumping might as well be a neon damn sign, and Patty rolls her eyes right into her crossword, scoffing under her breath. “Thought we discussed lettin’ them get together at their own speed?”

“You discussed. I was nearby.”

Patty snorts. “Baby, you can’t just lock ‘em in a room and start playin’ Marvin Gaye. Love takes time.”

Holtzmann tilts her head and sticks out her bottom lip, brow furrowed in confusion while she drums rubber-gloved fingers on the tabletop. “Worked for my rats.”

Patty jams a finger in her direction, serves up another eyeroll. Girl’s earned it. “If you break up our happy home with ghost girl drama, that’s on you.”

Holtzy twists in her seat, suddenly flops forward on an elbow to flash a sporting grin, tugging down her goggles with a sly flick. “A hundred bucks says they’re boinking by New Year’s Eve. And that’s a Holtzmann _guarantee_.” 

Talking with Holtzmann’s like stopping in the corner bodega for toilet paper and coming out with a six-pack and three boxes of Krispy Kreme instead, with no memory of why except you wanted to. Makes Patty feel twenty-two again and irresponsible as hell, like setting up your coworkers is a viable replacement dish when you’ve scratched yourself off the menu.

“First of all, never say that again. And I’ll take that action, although we both know you don’t got a hundred bucks.”

“And that,” Holtzmann fairly gleams, snaps on the blowtorch with a throaty purr, “Is what makes it _interesting_.”

 

***

 

“Really loved how they had all the different abstract sculptures showing each chef’s specialty, that was cool. People always think of food in terms of eating, but it’s art too, y’know?”

Holtzy doesn’t look up from where she’s pawing through a stack of souvenir tees, but Patty knows she’s listening. Especially when she bites those dainty lips and drops to her knees, rooting around in a bin of flashlight keychains with a bouncy nod.

“I’ve certainly made a few Jackson Pollocks in my time. Ketchup, mustard. _Mountain Dew_.”

Patty can’t help chuckling when girl pops up like a tow-headed jill-in-the-box, goes bounding across the empty gift shop and its sleek displays of MOCA merch like she’s gotta check every damn shelf. Starts poking a stack of thermal coffee mugs like they’ve got secrets.

“And the story behind it—bein’ brought over through immigration, and evolving here in the states, there’s a lot of history there. So many subtle variations in just the cooking.”

Holtzy doesn’t answer, just pops a bug-eyed stare at a rainbow row of cooking spoons like they’re singing her name, siren-style.

“What’s your favourite colour?"

“Purple. Like, that exhibit—and this whole place, honestly—are perfect examples of why one country’s culture ain’t some monolithic entity. People gonna be racist all day long, but if they actually bother to educate themselves a little about everybody else, you start realizing nobody’s exactly the same. Which is why stereotypes are B.S. to begin with.”

Holtzy’s puttering around a rack of postcards, still wrapped in what’s quickly becoming their post-museum ritual and Patty sighs, checks her nails for chips. “Girl, you almost done? Don’t think this place has those crazy straws you like so much.”

“Mm. Yes.” The engineer whirls around, grin plastered in place and clutching a postcard that she wafts right under Patty’s nose. “Had to get one of _these_ for Abby.”

“I’d definitely come back here again, Holtzy. A-plus pick. You got a favorite bit? Already told you mine.”

Patty follows her baby all the way to the till, watches Holtzy pay with a stack of wrinkled ones, for the postcard and one of those silicone cooking spoons, bright purple.

More expensive than a postcard.

Starts something warm in Patty’s chest, like somebody’s climbed in and built a campfire, and if that somebody’s Holtzy and probably packing marshmallows on a stick she wouldn’t be surprised, especially when girl boomerangs back to her side like she never left, answer rolling off her tongue.

“Learning that food isn’t just _food_. It’s an identity.”

Girl’s got this way about her that warms Patty right down to the soles of her feet, where she’ll watch as you unpack your point, let you talk it up and set it on display without a word of interruption. Genuinely soaks in what you’re saying before she chucks in her own two cents, usually short and sweet and more succinct than Patty ever manages but you know she’s been listening, that she’s interested.

With her, Patty never feels like she’s too loud or too much, like she’s boring her audience. With Holtzmann, she always feels like just enough.

“Mm. Good answer, baby.”

Holtzmann sways away and then bumps back into her ribs like gravity, swinging the flimsy bag of spoils around her wrist just enough to get Patty feeling nervous. “Speaking of which, that restaurant setup at the end _inspired_ my appetite. I’ll allow you to treat me to lunch as a thank you for the opportunity.”

“Honey, you always hungry. C’mon, two blocks down there’s a place that does the best dumplings you’ve ever had.”

And Patty’s snagging hold of her baby’s arm, steers them through the doorway and down the steps, out into the cold November afternoon with a laughing snort as the breeze whips Holtzy’s ringlets into her face, mood soaring lighter than the autumn sunshine kissing Patty's face.

“And you’re even lettin’ me buy? How generous.”

“I’m full of charity.”

 

***

 

These little jaunts out on Manhattan never feel more like dates than when Holtzy’s hanging off her arm, jiggling that messy skull with a grin that’s lodged itself in her chest like a goddamn rocket, fizzing sparks through her bloodstream. Laughing and jostling down the crosswalk like they’ve found a language all their own, and it’s by far her favorite. 

Even when Holtzmann nearly thwaps her in the face with a flailing arm, transfixed on some street art covering the apartments opposite—looks like aliens abducting the Statue of Liberty. Seems appropriate.

“I remember that building—we had a bust Sunday. Greene Street, yeah. Nasty little beastie with lots of slime. Nice match for the street name.”

“Oh.” Patty gnaws at her bottom lip, knows she’s eating off her lipstick, but. This being-off-busts thing is weird, feeling more out of the loop than she cares to admit. “I didn’t know there was a call, Sunday.”

“We didn’t call _you_. Didn’t want to wake you up.”

And maybe it’s just the way Holtzy ripples her fingers into Patty’s sleeve, but that tiny breath of consideration—and validation, that she’s not been forgotten—is enough to kick her no-busting blues right out the door.

“You three get turned green?”

“Only our butts. Kept slipping, fell over a couple of times. Really glad you weren’t there.” Girl grips at her own shoulder in a mirror of Patty’s injured one, makes a face like she’s dying and yeah, that don’t sound pretty.

“Can’t wait till I’m back on busts again,” she says anyway, because for all the time she spent agonizing over their last fiasco in Flatbush, Patty misses her job. Misses running around with her girls, screeching and laughing and kicking undead ass, being a team.

“You’re not the only one.” Holtzy says at once, like it's been on her mind for hours.

And isn't it amazing, Patty thinks, as she pounds the pavement alongside her girl, that five little words are all it takes to make her feel like she's already home.

 

***

 

“Hope you still got your appetite.”

The gold-patterned wallpaper’s fading, with strings of twinkling red lanterns still festoon the walls, but a blessed lack of fluorescents and the once-plush carpet are a far cry from Zhu’s kitschy tile, and Patty couldn’t be happier.

And maybe this place has seen better and busier days, empty save for a scattered handful of diners scraping up the remnants of late lunch, but they’ve practically got the place to themselves, and that suits Patty just fine. It’s cozy.

“Pats, _please_. It’s me.”

Holtzy pokes up a cheesy smirk and settles back against the booth, shaking the swan shape out of her linen napkin before tucking it into her collar, complete with a cartoony flourish. Busy unsnapping those fingerless gloves and wriggling them off to rest on the table, reaching for the delicate set of chopsticks like they’re her next big project—Patty’s gotta fight herself to look away, and finds an unexpected savior at her elbow.

“Oh Danny, hey man!”

And before their server beats her to it, Patty’s scraping together enough sense to repeat the greeting in Mandarin, tacking on their usual how-are-you’s and really aiming for her best pronunciation this time, cos getting teased in front of Holtzy ain’t top of her list, plus she’s been practicing. Wears a smug-ass grin well-earned when she compliments Danny’s forest-green tie, because it makes him laugh and mutter something that sounds a lot like _show off_.

And when she sneaks a look Holtzy’s watching with barely-contained awe, sends Patty feeling high as a damn kite and she’s quick to explain, include her in the conversation.

“Danny and I met on the green line when I first started at the MTA, used to walk by my booth with leftovers smellin’ like heaven. Didn’t take much convincing to get me down here after that.”

Danny extends an easy smile, eyes crinkling at the corners as he switches comfortably to English, aims Holtzy a wink hello. “Spent more time talking to me than doing her actual job.”

Shifts a look to Patty like he’s stirring the pot, which is just plain rude seein’ as she’s bringing in business. “That the _real_ reason you left?”

Holtzy pounces before Patty can respond, lips twisted like she’s winning. “Sounds _familiar_.”

“Hey, come on!”

“Couldn’t get her out of here for the next week. That’ll teach me to dawdle next time in the subway.”

Dancing on the edge of pals-at-first-sight, girl offers out her hand for a shake and a brilliant grin. “Holtzmann. De _lighted_ to meet you.”

“Likewise.” The pair practically slaps high-fives and Patty decides to up the ante, musters all those hours of work with her favorite easy-learn app and stack of common-phrase books. Lifts her chin, starts an order in carefully-curated Chinese—and gets about as far as the dim sum list when Holtzy’s oxford brogue goes sliding up her ankle, and every single word Patty’s ever learned falls right outta her head.

So Patty’s stammering and girl’s teasing, she’s playing fucking _footsie_ under the table and curling up a feral grin, eyes wild behind those tinted lenses like she is _loving_ this. A few more failed attempts and Patty’s faltering back to her native tongue, throws in the towel with indignant protest. “I been practicing!”

“I’m sure you have, Patty.” And Danny’s got that look, like his mouth’s agreeing with her while his eyes know something else, and lowers his voice just enough to sound fully conspiratorial as he dips back into Mandarin, baiting her with a smirk and what Patty roughly translates as, _difficult to focus with a pretty face in front of you, eh_?

Man, her friends are assholes.

But the best defense is a solid offense, so Patty’s snagging dignity by the fingertips and plunking it down like a challenge as she squares her jaw, taps one coral nail against her cup.

“My girl Holtzy keeps saying she’s hungry, think you can help us out?”

Trust their server to finally drop the act after he’s dragged her long enough to earn Holtzmann’s snicker, nodding serenely as he sets down a teapot front and center. “Absolutely. The usual?”

“You know it. For two, please.”

Danny never bothers laying down the menus under his arm, carries them away instead while Patty sucks in a deep breath, turns back to Holtzy and kicks her earlier fluster out of bounds cos she’s not even gonna _touch_ the whole footsie thing, girl needs encouraging like she needs nuclear launch codes, which is to say not at all. “Danny’s good people.”

“If he makes you blush like that he’s _great_ people.”

Credit ain’t his but Patty’s avoiding truth like the damn plague, picks up the porcelain pot and hops the bus of let’s-change-the-subject, headin’ nowhere fast. “You want tea?”

In response her baby scoops up a cup with two fingers, waggling it beneath the waiting spout with an eager grin. “Yes _ma’am_.” Holtzmann waits as she pours, hunkered down and slinking out of her beat-up leather jacket one arm at a time, switching hands as she suddenly tweaks a brow, impressed.

“You must pass by an awful lot if you have a usual. Even Abby doesn’t have that. Just yells _wontons!_ down the phone.”

“Okay well in all fairness, Abby’s probably the only one keepin’ them in business.” Patty fills her baby’s cup till just below the rim, moves on to her own as Holtzy retreats her hand, brings the fresh pour to her nose for a discerning sniff before she sets it on the table, untouched.

“But Danny wasn’t kidding. When I found this place I probably ate here four days a week, minimum. Used to hike down after my early shift, read some Gary Hardwick and shake off the day with a plate of steamed leek dumplings till rush hour wrapped up.”

Holtzmann rakes a cursory look around the room and its dwindling patrons, shrugging shoulders beneath her blue waistcoat, faded green tee creasing underneath as she clicks her tongue. “I’m expecting something truly spectacular. Patty’s palette’s not let me down yet.”

And Patty knows a lot of things about this city, but where to find good food is the forte she’s been cultivating for years, basking in the praise with a sip of tea and a fat grin spread across her face. “Tell me something I _don’t_ know.”

There’s a minute where Holtzy pushes out her bottom lip, floats that popped gaze right up to the roof like she’s taking her head for a walk through Chelsea market. Then suddenly leans forward, pushing her palms across the table in a stretch until she’s sitting up, snaps her fingers.

“I once rode a vespa from Amsterdam to Budapest. Wore nothing but a raincoat and sandals. _Oh_ , and boxers.”

Holtzmann’s the uncontested champion of outta-left-field, but Patty’s not expecting a real answer and finds herself staring, tries to figure out which part of the reveal is more surprising outside of, well. _All_ of it. Finally settles on, “No helmet?”

Her baby reaches for the tea, dunks her nose over it with a shake of that messy head. “Used a colander.”

 _Lord_. Girl’s lucky she’s still got all her brains, but Patty just beams. “Never been to Budapest, but I spent a month in Prague when I was in college.”

“Prague is for pretty people.” The engineer points a finger, slurps at her cup like a fond memory. “I rode through.”

“Mm, yeah. My professor got me this scholarship, dunno how but she pulled some strings, set me up. I’d never been out of the tri-state area and all of a sudden my ass was on a plane to Prague, surrounded by art history majors, all these skinny blondes. Then there’s me, stuck out like a sore thumb. I mighta been the only black girl in the Czech Republic.”

Holtzy flashes a razor-sharp smirk and picks up her chopsticks, proceeds to air-drum all over the place. “Nah, I saw some. They were _all_ pretty.”

Patty’d be lying through her teeth if she wasn’t dying to know more but Danny’s returned, sets bowls of clear broth atop their plates, soup swimming with thick mushrooms and miles of noodles, fat wontons curling steam and her stomach growls, ravenous—and more than eager to get back to Holtzy, and this sudden trend of telling stories.

“So why exactly were you biking through Europe in flip-flops? No judgement baby, but that sounds like road rash waitin’ to happen.” Maybe it’s desperation talking but when this woman gives her an inch, Patty feels like demanding the rest of the goddamn mile.

Holtzy gathers up a slurry of noodles round her chopsticks, prods the dripping, dangling end with a fingertip before slurping up the bite, free hand waving circles to illustrate every point.

“Jess, who I was _with_ , in Amsterdam, we split ways rather… _atomic_ ally. I lived with her on a houseboat. We had a _slight_ disagreement one morning and all my clothes ended up in the Amstel. So I thought _fuck that_ , got on my scooter and left for Hungary. In college another girl had mentioned she’d end up in Budapest once she’d graduated. I rode there to find her.”

They’re both grown women with lives and exes, and Patty ain’t exactly jealous but leans forward anyway, stomach swirling. “Did you?”

“Nah, found someone else. A couple, of elses, actually.” Holtzmann watches Patty sit back in her seat, lips twitching with that lethal smirk curling up her face—she can usually tell when girl’s aiming for trouble, and with that goddamn _look_ she’s wearing now, Patty couldn’t miss it if she was blind.

“Hungary was _hungry_ for Holtzmann.” 

Trust it to be a shitty pun that tears the laugh right out of her, even as Patty's pulse tips right into racing at just the _thought_ of Holtzy young and wild, and on the prowl through Eastern Europe. And on a fucking scooter, sounds about right. “I bet it was, baby.”

Holtzy’s still watching her with that smug-ass grin as Patty pops a bite of mushroom, decides if there’s a lesbian variation on sowing wild oats, back in the day her engineer was pretty busy doing it—pries a little more because she can, fights to sound casual. “This awhile back?”

Girl swallows her mouthful, sets down her chopsticks long enough to nod. “Ehhh, ’03. Year after I graduated.” There’s a pause and she’s tugging off those glasses, delicately folds in the side shields and slides them into her breast pocket with a sudden spark. “Just think Pats, we could have met out there, in another life.”

Even thirteen years sounds recent when faced with Patty’s timeline—try decades, _plural_ —and she ain’t ashamed, she’s lived her life and done it well, but. Sat here, watching her baby fish scallions out of her bowl with the edge of her spoon ain’t making Patty any younger, almost wistful as she slides Holtzy a smile. “Think I was there long before you, sweetie.”

“That’s why I said another life, keep up.” Shoving her spoon through the steaming broth with that snappy grin, Holtzmann doesn’t relent.

“I want to get to know college Patty. Can I get to know college Patty? Tell me about her.”

“Hah, okay.” Patty takes a deep breath, gathers herself. “College Patty was really into Janet Jackson and Tears For Fears; and played varsity basketball, power forward.” It’s nice, being asked—she only ever remembers these things with Letta and nowadays, even that’s rare. “Double-majored in history and lit cos I wanted to, even though my pops said it was a dumbass thing to do, no money in it.” Debates for a minute, but she’s feeling generous with the memory of her younger, dumber self; knows her baby’ll appreciate the candor. “College Patty dated gorgeous girls, and fine-ass boys, and partied way more than she should have.” 

“College Patty sounds like a hoot.” Kinda gratifying to see Holtzmann’s got that electric expression propped up with both fists beneath her chin, wide-eyed and way too keenly _into_ this. “Does she have any regrets?”

Patty thinks for a minute, bites her lip to keep from laughing. “Uh, streaking across Brooklyn College quad in the ass-crack of January, I truly regret doin’ that.”

Tilts her gaze up to the ceiling, scrapes the inside of her brain for more, there’s definitely more. “Wouldn’t mix weed and tequila again, that was shit.” Shakes her head, feeling vaguely guilty. “I’d have paid more attention in calculus, flunked right out of it twice.” And when Patty looks back down there’s Holtzy watching her, fascinated and teetering on the edge of a grin. _That I didn’t meet you sooner_ , she thinks, stomach clenching.

“That it took me so long to find my way here,” she says, instead. “A job I love, with people who care.”

“A family.” Holtzy nods like it’s the answer to everything, the conclusion of a long and lengthy dissertation Patty didn’t know they were writing together.

In fact, girl’s grabbing her porcelain cup and shoving it across the table, raised in midair with a light in her eyes that makes Patty’s heart pinball around her chest, all the bells and whistles pinging. “To people, _who care_.”

Holtzmann’s all about this family stuff, since that night months ago in the bar and from what Patty’s gleaned, she’s never had one like this—makes her glad, quietly proud to be part of it. Raises her tea cup even though these ain’t exactly toasting mugs, clinks it gently against her baby’s, echoing with a soft grin. “People who care.”

The engineer knocks back her tea like she’s drinking to win, renegade whorls of blonde flopping into her eyes when she resurfaces with a gasp. “Ooh, _hot_.” Sticks out a sleeve and daubs at her tongue like a disgruntled tabby, makes Patty shake her head, feeling too damn fond for the room.

“Baby, I coulda told you that.”

Already reaching for the pot and a refill, she’s watching Holtzy shove back her hair and twitch that pointed nose, and maybe all it’ll take to get that goddamn mile is asking, and if that’s the case—

Can’t hurt to try.

Fortifying with a sip of her own, Patty settles back in her chair and gets comfortable, flicks Holtzmann the challenge with a grin on the line. “Hey, Holtzy. Weirdest job you’ve ever had, _go_.”

 _Zero_ hesitation. “Worked a stall in Tibet selling insects as snacks. And spiders and scorpions on sticks, they had those too.”

Patty’s gotten better at sifting through her girl’s more fantastical details—usually looks like two-and-a-half truths, wrapped in a pretty pack of lies—and on this one, she’s dubious at best.

“You gotta be dunkin’ my donuts.”

“Nope. Totally one-hundred-percent, keeping it real.” Holtzy’s innocence personified till she’s slinking back against the booth, come-at-me grin and both hands propped behind her scruffy head.

“Weirdest place you’ve ever had sex. _Go_.”

Oh man, so this how she wanna play? Patty ain’t shy, dips into her bowl for a fat wonton between her sticks knowing exactly how to answer. “Girl’s locker room showers, after playoffs. College.” Leaves it at that, Holtzy don’t need to know it was closer to blowing off steam than anything real, too busy basking in that gleeful fascination radiating off her engineer like a clawfoot full of francium. “Same question, back at ‘cha.”

“Trunk of a moving cab.” Girl rubs at her chin, opens her mouth like she’s got a third degree brewing but Patty’s faster.

“Nuh-uh, explain.” And on the heels of that thought, suddenly wary. “You weren’t kidnapped or nothin’, right?” 

“Oh no, totally voluntary. The rest of the car was full.” Doesn’t give Patty the chance to ask _excuse me, what the fuck_ because she’s shovelling in another mouthful, inquires around a full grin leaking noodles.

“Favourite day of the week.”

“Oh, easy. Friday, cos you got a whole weekend ahead of you full of possibility. Tuesdays are hands-down the worst; you come in Monday ready to go but by Tuesday, you’ve lost your steam and gotta run for three more days anyway.”

Holtzmann takes in every word with a solemn nod, setting her chopsticks loose to clink against the bowl as she lifts her chin, shapes her hands around an unseen explanation. “I like Wednesdays. I like the W. And it’s _green_. Always see that day’s color as green.”

“Mm yeah, I can see that.” Must be the same green as Holtzy’s well-loved duster coat, the one with scorch marks down the shoulder. “Friday got a color?”

“Hm. Navy blue, or deep purple. Smoke on the water. _Very_ chill. But ready to get down and party.”

“I like it.” Patty nibbles the edge of her wonton, lets it plop half-eaten back into the bowl on a flare of curiosity. “You play any musical instruments?” Get past her bruised knuckles and those fingers would make a pianist weep; Patty’s watched her dismantle dime-sized logic boards without batting a lash, totally focused, hands steady.

“Nope. But I was in a band.” Holtzy grins, bumper-cars her foot against Patty’s under the table.

“Uh, you were in a band, but you don’t—did you sing?”

“I tried. It was just me.”

More footsie. “A band. With one person?”

Patty nudges back. Her Nikes are wound up with Holtzy’s oxfords like a box of tangled Christmas lights.

“We were called Dinosaur Spaceship Explosion and I, actually, got a couple of gigs.” She leans forward on an elbow, teeth mashing into her bottom lip on a wistful exhale and Patty wants to ask was it space rock, sounds like space rock; can imagine Holtzy tearing up some eighties remixes with a light-up keyboard, maybe some lasers. Calling occupants of interplanetary craft and asking if there’s life on Mars—except that’s when Danny reappears, with maybe the biggest damn tray of dim sum Patty’s ever seen.

“Whoa… Man, I said for _two_ , not an army!”

Danny’s juggling three different platters, still finds time to tweak a smug eyebrow in their direction. “I think Holtzmann can handle it.”

Speaking of, Holtzy’s eyes are glazing over as their intrepid server sweeps away their half-finished soup, whisks out plates of crispy spring rolls, fried crab rangoons and steamer baskets of dumplings, xiao long bao instead—looks like heaven, and her girl’s already making a pass at the scallion pancakes like a claw machine champ, back in the game with eager chopsticks.

“How many languages can you speak?”

Patty reaches for a rangoon. “Okay, well. Fluent in, or just speak a little?”

“Both.”

“So fluent, I’ve got English, Spanish, French, and enough Portuguese to get by. If we’re talkin’ just your standard conversational stuff, I’m working on Italian, Farsi, and of course, Mandarin—and I can sign a little bit, enough to help you find the right train. Got Korean on my list as well, and I have an old Polish lady in my building who’s been teaching me a bit. _Dzień dobry_!” She throws up a cheery wave, gives an embarrassed little chuckle. “Heh, that means ‘good morning!’ She’s real nice.”

 _"J’aurais aimé savoir ça plus tôt_.”

“Hold up, you speak French?! Holtzy, you’re full of hidden talents.”

Holtzmann just smiles like that’s not the only thing she’s got hidden, has Patty racking her brain for something, _anything._

“Um. You got any tattoos I don’t know about?”

They’ve showered together, not _together_ but enough for Patty to class a look down the cut of her jib, and it’s. _Fine_. But tattoo-less, if hasty stolen glances are up as evidence, and maybe she already knows the answer but with girl looking at her like that, it’s all she’s got.

“No. _So_ , I’ve always wanted to ask you.” No elaboration, just a pause for dramatic effect, and to jam a mouthful of sticky rice and pancake past her lips. “What’s it like, being so _tall_?”

“Ha, well. Good, cos I can always find my friends in a crowd, and I got killer legs. Bad for shopping, findin’ jeans that actually reach my ankles is a pain in the ass.” Patty picks up a spring roll, doesn’t mind getting her hands greasy when it tastes like this, idly twirling one end through sweet ginger sauce.

“Was harder when I was younger, outgrew all the boys by 4th grade, and they didn’t catch up till high school. Awesome when I was playing basketball, and I never have to ask for help at the supermarket. Overall? Love the shape I’m in.”

“It’s a great shape.”

“Thanks, babe.” Patty knows. Makes her grin anyway as she pries the lid off the closest steamer basket, plucks out two of the prettiest bao for herself with a flash of sticks. And if her baby’s already swooping in to swipe one off her plate, she’ll maybe let it slide. This time.

“How long you been going by Holtzmann?” Surnames were pretty standard running with a college basketball crowd, but she knows for a fact Holtzy’s deceptively wiry frame is about as sports-friendly as a soft-boiled egg, and Abby was her first crowd anyway. 

“Middle school. I wanted something different. Ambiguous.” Girl picks at her dumpling. “Androgynous.” 

Makes sense. “You look more like a Holtzy than a Jill, anyway.”

The engineer preens at the compliment, fluffing up her hair with the wrong end of her sticks and a prim little nod, hand pressed genuine over her heart. “ _Thank you_.”

Patty crunches the end of her spring roll, tastes cabbage and shrimp wrapped in a cloud of spicy ginger. “So what’s the deal with only one earring.”

“Ah… didn’t think you noticed, Pats.” Holtzmann looks almost flattered, loops a finger in the air around her right lobe, soft pink and currently sans-stud. “Pierced it myself with a paperclip. Heated it up on a bunsen, red-white _hot_ , and pushed it through. Hurt too much to do the other. Sometimes I still smell my flesh burning.”

“Oh my _god_ , I regret askin’ that. Jesus.”

Apparently unfazed by Patty packing in her appetite—or maybe just willing to risk getting caught—Holtzy’s reaching out to steal another dumpling but ain’t fast enough, grinning guilty as charged when Patty snags her wrist, holds on tight.

“Whoops, my stick _slipped_.”

“Nuh-uh. I’m just gonna hang onto this for awhile. You can’t be trusted.”

Girl lets out a silent chuckle as she slinks down to prop her chin against the table, wiggles her captured fingers like a tease down Patty’s wrist, and that smirk’s doing nothing to cool her jets.   

“This game is _fun_.”

Holtzmann’s skinny hand feels like ice, girl’s always cold when she touches her. Makes Patty want to wrap her up in ten layers and buy her some damn hand warmers, maybe stuff a hot water bottle down her pants. “Oh yeah? You like findin’ things out about me?”

“Hm-hm, it’s interesting. _You’re_ interesting.” Holtzy twitches her free hand full of crab rangoon, slurps out the filling as she opines, mouth full. “But you already knew that.”

Patty did but can’t imagine she’ll ever get tired of hearing it from this girl, busy crunching crumbs spilling down the front of her rumpled tee, and it’s a damn fine thing they’re only friends, cos otherwise Patty’d be having a serious chat with herself about standards, and when exactly hers skipped town.

“You don’t mind me asking? Never usually up to revealing much about yourself, baby.”

Girl finishes her rangoon, pops a ball of rice past her lips with a soft shrug, brows weaving together like she’s emptying her mental piggy bank for the rest of an answer.

“Well.”

Strokes those callused fingers delicately over Patty’s wrist, makes her throat go drier than a Baptist picnic and maybe in another dimension, that means something—in this one, they’re just Patty and Holtzmann. No strings attached.

“It’s _you_ , Pats.”

Holtzmann curls up a faint little smile, sticks a curious finger in her half-empty rice bowl and looks almost bashful, like saying it out loud feels. Weird.

“You take the time to ask. That’s a new development for me.”

 _Not a date_ , Patty tells herself, even as she can’t seem to let go of her girl’s hand, and Holtzy doesn’t try to get free.

“ _So_ Patty, you’re a connoisseur. What’s your last meal?”

“Ooh, now there’s a million dollar question.” Patty leans forward, checks her brain and settles in, cos this is one she’s been preparing for a while. A lifetime, in fact.

“Well, providin’ there’s no price cap, and I won’t be around for the bellyache, I’d start with a Caprese salad, fresh mozzarella, and the crab rangoons and leek dumplings from here, actually. Next would be Sontum Der’s coconut-milk pork skewers and sticky rice—oh my _god_ , so good—then fresh oysters and octopus tentacles from Blue Water. Providin’ I still got room, throw in some spicy Trinidad doubles from Ali’s near my place, and _of course_ , dessert. Lady M does a mille crêpe cake that I’d do unspeakable things for—they got a shop off West 40th, I’ll take you sometime. Top it off with my mama’s peach-plum cobbler à la mode. Maybe a cheese plate after that, brie and manchego… oh, and duh, cocktails. Nitecap’s got one with plum preserves and vanilla bean vodka that’s the shit, and I wouldn’t say no to a few glasses of bubbly—Dom Pérignon, since I’m callin’ it a celebration.”

“So, clearly not thought about this much.”

“I know what I like.” Patty grins, lets out a wistful sigh just _thinking_ about it and picks up her chopsticks, fishing in her bowl. “How ‘bout you?”

And she knows Holtzmann waits for this, purposefully fucking _waits_ until she’s got a mouth full of stewed beef to lean forward, cheek resting dreamily on one hand and that sweet, angelic smile curling up her pretty little face.

“Pussy.”

Jesus H, Patty’s spitting out her beef, snorting hoisin sauce up her nose and _christ_ , it burns. “Girl, you oughta know better than to say shit like that when my mouth’s full.”

Holtzy’s six shades of unrepentant, which means a toothy fucking grin around another three dumplings before she straightens up, clears her throat like she means business.

“ _Ahem_. Now Pats, my next question for you. It's serious, life-altering. Imperative that you answer _honestly_.”

Holtzmann looks like she’s contemplating the mystery of a lifetime, fingertips steepled against her chin, elbows on the table with that wide-eyed _stare_ , intensity of a goddamn sun, and _god._ This better not be some kinda deep, life-changing shit, or Patty might bolt—

“What kind of desserts does this place _do_?”

 

***

 

It’s almost three hours later when they’re rounding the corner to home, and every second's been worth it.

Holtzmann’s been playing a soundtrack of blue slurpee in her ear for the last six blocks, bouncing alongside with Patty’s purse on her hip, started carrying it post-restaurant without a peep of complaint, which is. Real sweet.

Although even the short distance walking from Canal to North Moore’s taken its toll; a long day on her feet and Patty's exhausted, sighing at the sight of their firehouse stood proud and noble against the dusk-streaked sky.

“Didn’t realize the time. Train’s gonna be a nightmare gettin’ home.”

“I’ll drive you back.”

Holtzy’s peering skyward with those brows creased up her forehead, straw tucked in the side of her mouth as she slurps a long, noisy pull of blue, like she’s fortifying herself against whatever Patty’s gonna say. Shades her eyes even in the settling dim as they step off the curb, makes her case around a crinkling bite of straw. “Better than elbow hockey with Joe Public.”

Sounds tempting, but Patty ain’t big on taking advantage. “Dunno baby, I live all the way out past Clinton Hill. We’d definitely get stuck in traffic. You sure you wanna?”

“Positive. Near Jackson Heights, right?”

It is precisely not anywhere _near_ Jackson Heights, but Holtzy looks so cheerfully obliging as she hops back onto the sidewalk with a finger in the air, Patty limits herself to a subdued chuckle, shakes her head.

“That’s in Queens, honey. I’m from Brooklyn.”

Holtzmann smiles as she twirls on her heels and reaches for their red door, tugging it open with a goddamn half bow and showing her teeth, lips tinged slightly blue and smug over the rim of those round yellow specs. “You _put_ the _queen,_ in Brooklyn.”

 

***

 

Patty’s not gonna say she told her so, but she damn well told her so. They’re stuck in the fast lane of the Manhattan bridge in solid hood-to-bumper traffic, inching east at the pace of an arthritic tortoise while Patty leans forward over the dash, tries to get a better look at the jam up ahead. Fleetwood Mac warbling through the Ecto’s grainy speakers.

“Oh, that don’t look good. I’m sorry you’re gonna get caught in this again on the way back, babe.”

“ _Relax_ , Pats. Play some tunes. Kick your feet up. Feel the wind in your _haaair_.”

She watches in faint horror as Holtzmann actually swings her left leg up and dangles it outside the driver’s side window, knocks the side mirror crooked before Patty can snag her baby’s battered leather jacket by the shoulder like excuse me, what in the everloving _fuck_.

“Girl, get _all_ of yourself in the damn car.”

Holtzy relents, slithering her ankle back in by way of a sneaky blink and breezily swapping subjects over the wheel.

“You should probably guide me the rest of the way. Can’t _exactly_ recall where your pad is.”

Patty’s just wondering how in the fresh hell Holtzy’s navigated driving the five boroughs this long without a sense of direction—but then again, she’s seen some cabs who couldn’t find their own ass with both hands, much less Bed-Stuy. “Uh, you’re gonna want to hop in the inside lane here after the bridge. Then all the way down to Lafayette, and take a left.”

“Can _do_ , skipper.”

Traffic hasn’t moved but it’s done nothing to dampen Holtzy’s spirits, snapping an obedient salute and mouthing along with the chorus of “Paper Doll,” and Patty's definitely not having feelings about that. Gotta be all those dumplings swimming around her insides, if only anatomy worked that way.

“You should ask me another question. I liked it.”

Patty leans back against her well-worn seat, settling into the cracked leather _just_ right and man, maybe she oughta bribe Abby to let her sit up front more often, sure is comfy. View ain’t bad either.

“Yeah? You’re right. Was fun. Think I might be all questioned out though, baby.”

Girl slants her a smirk, eases the accelerator like a purring jag. “What if I’m, _gentle_?”

And Patty’s gotta snort to cover up her queer-ass panic at the thought, because goddamn, what kinda _thought_ … “Gonna take a wild stab and say _your_ definition of gentle, and mine? Real different.”

Holtzy’s pleading gaze—big blue puppy-eyes, six kinds of illegal—works long enough for her to cave, because. 

Of _course_ she does.

 

***

 

“Holtzy, I bet you could make a toaster fly if you wanted to.” 

That perks her scientist right the fuck up, nodding along over the dashboard. “Given enough time and resources _anything’s_ possible. If you engineer it right.”

Patty’s seen that same thrill in her electric eyes when someone brings up her girl’s special interest, starts in on the finer points of engineering or experimental particle physics. Or praises Holtzy for her skills, which are looking pretty innumerable at this point. A woman doesn’t have to be a nuclear engineer herself to know that whatever Holtzmann’s capable of creating, with those hectic fingers and that beautiful damn brain, is nothing short of incredible.

“I’m going to make a lasso next, or a net. A plasma net with weighted ends. Fires from a bazooka and _pshooooffff_ - _sntch_ —catches up the ghosties.”

Holtzmann’s happily taken her hands off the wheel to oblige her vision with wildly scooping gestures, eyes sparking behind her lenses with the glint of taillights ahead. And Patty’s listening, _definitely_ listening more than she’s itching to reach over, adjust the Ecto’s wayward steering. Still firmly in their lane, but picking up speed since Brooklyn’s not far off, end of the bridge in sight.

“—maybe have it transport them _into_ the trap. Or— _or better yet_ —this is better—it can disintegrate. The ends are magnetised and drawn together once the entity is caught. An elecromagnet for ease of use. Switch it on. Snag ’n grab, sling ‘em over shoulder like old St. Nick.”

Girl smushes clawed hands together, returns them to the wheel with a lazy grin and grooving in the worn leather seat with apparent satisfaction, and the question’s barely one at all, outside the eager little chin jut aimed her way. “What do you think.”

“Maybe aim for disintegration if you can work it? Think I’d rather get coal than a sack full of ghosts, baby.”

“Noted.” Raising a finger to the roof, Holtzmann seems to clock the gap between the Ecto and the unlucky sedan in front of them, stepping on the gas with a roar, surging forward six feet to the bumper. Tailgating right up their ass, totally damn unnecessary.

“You’d never make it onto _my_ naughty list, Pats.”

Girl’s hanging her mouth open, front teeth stuck out in an overbite of grin like she’s her own personal brand of entertainment, and Patty never knew she wanted ringside seats until now. “Unless you want to be.”

Sounds like one hell of an invite.

The off-ramp through Flatbush Avenue runs just ahead and Holtzy’s teasing the Ecto with a growling rev, keenly zipping forward when the guy in front of them gives up the ghost and swaps lanes. The mixtape’s moved onto Hall and Oates, and Patty’s got a sunset burning in her chest just looking at this mess of blonde, currently drumming knuckles on the steering wheel and crooning _I ain’t the way you found me, and I’ll never be the same_ like she’s aiming for an album deal. And ain’t that line the goddamn truth.

“Maybe I do."

And before Holtzy can even open her mouth Patty’s reaching for the volume, turns it up to eleven and smirks across the seat when her baby perks right up, speeding down the expressway and serenading Brooklyn at the top of their lungs, _cos you, you make my dreams come tru-uue._

 

***

 

“—she kept talking and _talking_ but I could never understand what she was saying. Too complex for my ears. Sounded almost _Canadian_ , eh.”

“Ah, just up here baby, take a right on Bedford.”

In response Holtzmann mashes down the pedal, burning rubber as she takes the turn on a goddamn dime and _jesus_ , Patty’s organs did not sign up for this rollercoaster shit while her girl floors it through the next intersection, still merrily jabbering over the screech of brakes.

“—but in answer to your question, _that’s_ when the cockatiel died. I don’t know how old it was. It couldn’t fly. I always thought it ate the old guy’s monocle. Weighed it down.”

Talk about a wild damn ride in every sense of the word, and Patty’s slowly releasing her tight-knuckled grip on the door when they ease to a stop at the light, brows feeling permanently plastered to her forehead as the laugh leaks out of her, fond as fuck.

“Holtzy, you have had. A weird fucking life.” Patty runs a hand over her braids, toying with a plait that feels loose from the breeze whipping them in the face all the way home. “You make reading to my goldfish sound tame.”

Holtzmann smirks and nudges the accelerator when the signal goes green, chewing her lip before adding casually, “I knew someone who ate live goldfish. Got paid 30 kroner _a piece_.”

“Sweetie, I’m sincerely hopin’ that _someone_ wasn’t you.”

There’s a too-long pause before girl chuckles deep in her throat, twinkle lodged in those pretty eyes. “I prefer my fish fried.”

There’s a joke in there somewhere but she doesn’t have time to dwell—the familiar brick of Patty’s building is just up ahead and she waves a hand towards the streetlit corner, heart suddenly thudding like she’s got something to prove even though she doesn’t, what the hell.

“Uh, I’m right up here, by the laundromat—but you can drop me at the next corner, if it’s easier—”

“Non _sense_ , Pattycakes.” Holtzy’s pulling right outside her walkup, slides into an absolutely _illegal_ parallel park outside the laundry and bodega downstairs that leaves the Ecto’s hood hanging halfway over the crosswalk, shucking the gear stick forward before leaning _into Patty’s goddamn lap._ Craning her neck to peer up and out the passenger side window, girl looks impressed. “Ah, now I remember. Casa de Pats.”

“Ah, yeah.” Her throat’s gone dry, lost for clever words and all Patty can think is that she wants, wants to ask Holtzy to come upstairs with her. Lets herself imagine the briefest moment of this soft weirdo in her apartment, taking in the sight of Patty’s sofa with a studious frown, poring over all her framed maps and old photographs with wide, wondering eyes and that lopsided smile. Touching things she shouldn’t, poking around like an amateur cat burglar and clumsily, earnestly carrying away little pieces of Patty’s heart till her pockets are full.

A honk from behind jars her right outta that daydream, proves Holtzy’s parking ain’t quite so neat as she thought with their back end stuck out in the street, and Patty’s gonna take that as her call to reality, aims the engineer a messy grin cos her heart’s doing double-time.

“Well, uh. I had a really good time with you today, baby.” She lets out a feeble chuckle, panic clawing right up her throat and it feels a lot like _what the shit Patty, you’re not on a date?? Get your goddamn life right???_

Holtzmann’s already leaning back, elbow balanced on the gear shift with a wild smirk on that pointed face, like watching Patty’s nerves fray away rope bridge-style is the most entertaining thing on planet earth.

“Was a blast, Pats. Anytime.”

Another honk but Patty ignores it long enough to unclip her seatbelt, gropes for her purse on the floor with a blush creeping up her neck, glad her girl can’t see it. “And thanks for the ride. Sure beats shoving people for the subway.”

Even in thanks Patty can’t look at her now, not with this tidal wave of want crashing in her chest—the dam’s burst and it’s gonna flood the whole city, like get Noah-and-his-damn-ark on the phone, this place about to go under. Knows if she turns back now she’s gonna do something stupid, like drag Holtzy in by the collar of her leather jacket and give her ten different reasons to stay, nine of ‘em with tongue.

“Hey, Patty—you coming into work, this weekend? _At, all?”_

The words follow her in a hopeful rush before Patty’s even through the door, and Holtzy’s expectant smile wears like a kick of confidence where Patty needs it most—sends her beaming back through the window from her place on the curb, because teasing like this feels _safe_ , feels good.

“Why, you missin’ me already?”

And Holtzmann’s watching her with those big bright eyes, sprawled across the seats and completely tuning out the rest of Bed-Stuy traffic to gaze at Patty under the streetlights, chin propped in her hand and she’s so fucking cute, goddamn.

“Not the same without you, on your couch.”

The laugh bubbles up in her throat and this is suddenly easy again, leaning her elbow against the car door and grinning down at those yellow lenses, stuck on this girl like a pack of gum. “I am _more_ than just my couch, baby girl.”

Holtzy rakes a sly glance over her from where she’s draped low in her seat, licks her lips before pulling back with that trademark grin full of teeth, light winking off her glasses.

“ _So_ much more.”

A passing van shouts something nasty through their open window and that’s Patty’s cue to go, stepping back onto the sidewalk with a sigh cos telling her to leave is the last thing on her mind. “Better go, Holtzy. You’re holding up traffic.”

“I’m an emergency vehicle, they can wait. Need me to walk you to your _door_?”

Patty can’t tell if she’s jerking her chain or keeping it real, but the hopeful smile shining all the way across the front cab looks like the latter. Which makes this mess of feels she’s got knotted up inside herself, _so_ much worse.

“Heh, nah. I’m good. Already parked on the doorstep.”

Cavalier shrug notwithstanding, Holtzy’s already sliding back into the driver’s seat to wiggle the shift, looking out over the dash with a quiet beam Patty feels on her own face, dimples peeking. “See you Monday, Patty.”

“See you, baby. Drive safe.”

Her heart’s doing that thing again, that thing where she looks at her girl and sees stars, stood here scuffing her high tops on the pavement and feeling like she’s sixteen again, except sixteen-year-old Patty never knew she was into blondes, or nuclear engineers wanted for accidental arson in three different states.

Digging out her keys, she’s just inside her door for the stairs when Holtzy pulls out of the space, earning squeals of angry brakes from everyone else as she lays on the horn six times in a damn row, waves wildly before she’s driving off, siren lights flashing on like a wink goodnight.

 

***

 

Living over a laundromat has its perks—namely the option to take your basket back upstairs to match your damn socks in relative peace—and Patty’s just settled onto her comfy sofa with a hamper full of clean, fresh laundry, tumbling it into her lap and basking in the warmth.

Feels later than the two hours or so it’s been since Holtzy dropped her off; she’s lit some candles and her dinner plate’s dripping from the dish rack, leftovers already in the fridge.

It’s quiet.

Patty considers switching on the cable box, thinks she missed a Timeless episode or two somewhere in the swirl of the last few weeks—life’s just been a blur lately, days full of physical therapy and getting back to work, and walking places with Holtzmann. So many places, it’s like she’s seeing her city with fresh eyes. Discovering her favorites all over again, with someone who cares about why.

Still doesn’t make ‘em dates.

She picks up the shirt in her lap, toys with the idea of folding for a minute before she reaches for her phone instead, opening messages and scrolling through the ones she’s sent to Holtzmann. At the ones her engineer’s sent back. Girl texts like she’s twelve with emoticons to match; on anyone else it’d look lazy at best but Holtzy somehow manages to slide by, makes Patty grin just taking in her off-kilter sense of humor, alive and kicking even through a handful of abbreviated words and winking faces.

Patty’s alone in her empty apartment on a Friday night, and she decides to send her baby a text. Y’know, make sure she got back to the firehouse alright.

_Tell me you got home safe and I don’t have to come fish you out of the East River._

Hovers over send for longer than she should, hits it anyway and waits for the status to change to _delivered_ , then drops her phone in the pile of laundry. Not expecting an answer anytime soon cos Holtzy’s probably busy, probably up to her ears in electromagnetic wire and metal scraps. Maybe dancing around the lab in her boxers again, hair only _mildly_ smoldering while girl does the shimmy shimmy shake, does that thing with her hips that makes Patty forget how to read.

She’s not thirsty. 

Except barely a breath later her phone chimes its text tone, a fluttery little crescendo of four notes that sends Patty’s heart leaping right up her throat at warp speed as she digs it out from under her lacy red bikinis, fumbling to open the app.

_im safe n sound. rivr ws purely accidentl. we hve insurnce rite?_

There’s a breathless giggle leaking out of her with how fucking _ridiculous_ she is—forget thirsty, there’s not an ocean in the world that could quench this—Patty’s in _deep_ , got no one to blame but herself. Takes a slow breath, types back what she’s hoping sounds appropriately flippant, pulse thudding in her ears.

_Yeah we do, although who knows for how long with your ass on the contract_

Her phone pings.

_my ass is insured 4 1000002300000$_

Patty grins.

_Still not enough, baby._

_;-) :-*_

She knows damn well girl’s got a smartphone, got an emoji keyboard she loves abusing in group chats, but one-on-one Holtzy types like a college freshman with a Nokia, circa 2003. Another one of those weird-ass things that’s drilled its way right into Patty’s chest and set up shop selling butterflies, letting ‘em loose all over her insides.

And it’d be easy to let the conversation trail off here, let Holtzy wander back to whatever she was doing before her interruption. Easy.

Patty doesn’t want it.

_You lit the lab on fire yet with that new ghost net you were talking about? Better be far away from my books_

_i hd 2. only way 2 dry off aftr rivr swim. books r gud source 4 heat_

Holtzmann’s lucky she’s cute.

_Baby you’re dead to me_

_XPPPP_

Plucking at the shirt she never folded, Patty’s shaking out the creases when her phone chimes again, and again. Tells herself not to answer but opens up anyway to Holtzy still typing, fragmented messages flooding in like a stream.

_my ghst will haunt the firehose_

_*house_

_tht 2_

_spry erin in the face_

_dnt bust me 2 hrd patty_

_m jst a smlltown ghst livin in a lonly wurld_

Jesus. Patty snorts a laugh and fires off a hasty response, if only to quash the inevitable lyric mangling that’s sure to follow, cos her baby don’t know when to quit.

_If you keep quoting Journey I’ll bust you myself_

_ur gettin xtra hauntd_

Patty almost cracks at the irony of it all, considering this girl’s been haunting her for goddamn _months_ already—Holtzy’s about as much a part of her subconscious now as she is, lingering in the back of Patty’s thoughts sporting that toothy grin, come-hither wave usually attached to a propane torch.

She goes for a milder truth instead.

_Really quiet here, it’s weird_

The engineer’s typing on her end almost as soon as Patty’s message shows up.

_thoght u likd quiet_

Patty thought so, too.

_Yeah, guess I’m not used to it after being with you three_

_im as shh as a moose! !!_

_*mouse_

Brows quirked, she’s trying to figure out where to go with that but her girl’s typing again, little ellipsis bouncing in the bottom of her screen and Patty lets her finish, swallows hard when the text comes through.

_u cn cum bck here_

_Don’t tempt me_ , she doesn’t send.

_I’m good. Just getting used to being alone again_

_u dnt hve 2b_

Her heart’s tight in her chest, heat flaring in Patty’s cheeks as she cradles the phone in her lap, bites her lip hard to keep in the words that want to come pouring out through her fingers, that _can’t_.

She loves her job, maybe more than she ever thought she would. She loves her friend in a thousand different ways, all of them real and messier than the last.

She can’t have both.

_Thanks, baby._

And the thought of Holtzmann home alone in the firehouse, perched on that foil-wrapped lab stool and kicking her bare feet against the table, humming under her breath with those bug-eyed goggles on her head, it makes Patty _ache_.

_Stay out of trouble_

There’s a tiny pause before her phone chimes, feels like she’s cut a narrow escape.

_u no me_

Again.

_I know, trouble’s your permanent address_

_:-* nite_

Patty stares at the screen for a minute, tracing the lines of Holtzy’s pink lips in her mind before she shoots off a heart emoji, sets her phone down in the laundry for good.

Her apartment smells like a soy-wax candle, like clean clothes and _home_ —but jasmine and coconut can’t compete with the metallic tang of citrus hairspray, or the odd bits of wire she keeps finding all over the lab. 

And when she tips her head back against the sofa cushions with a soft groan, watching shadows flicker on the ceiling, Patty wonders how many times she’s gonna wind up back here before this goes away—alone on her couch on a Friday night, and wanting her best friend more than she should.

 

***

 

There’s a difference between nosy and wanting to be informed, and Patty’ll be the first one to let you know she’s the latter, and that she’s got no plans to stop. The key to rocking the municipal historian mantle is asking all the right questions, and Patty is, in all honesty, killin’ it.

“Okay, so tell me more about this paranormal stakeout thing. You guys were holed up in an abandoned house for _how_ long?”

Patty’s heard this story, Patty’s been treated to the director’s cut plus-bonus-scenes by Abby more than once, but she’s never heard Erin’s take on it—it ain’t fishin’ exactly, but she’s savvy enough to know if you bait your hook, you just might catch something anyway.

And if that something happens to dredge up fond memories of a fully-horizontal Yates-Gilbert equation, well. Can’t blame a woman for trying.

(Although she’ll be damned before she breathes a word of inadvertent matchmaking _anywhere_ in Holtzmann’s direction, cos girl’s already convinced Erin needs to get laid, and Patty’s not blind—those fidgety welding gloves are just waiting to toss Abby in there like the world’s most overzealous lesbian wingman.)

“Um, well. We’d just finished undergrad, it was July and we were right in the middle of figuring out our book—Abby got a tip from some forum, I’m not sure which one. She was on so many. Everything was a lot harder to find in the nineties, without Google or any real search engines.”

“I remember.” 

“But if anyone could find them, it was her. So she learned about this place thirty minutes from Ann Arbor, some little podunk town—and I was so busy editing our manuscript, I just nodded and went along when she said she wanted to try a field test. You know Abby, she’s hard to resist when she gets stuck on an idea.”

Patty knows all too well, but Erin’s indulgent quirk of a smile at the memory gets her wheels turning, could be the hint to something else—and like any good gumshoe, she’s keen to draw it out. Ducking the edge of a grin into her hazelnut decaf Patty’s already hinting, mug to her lips. “Y’all were really close then, huh?” 

“Yeah, we had other friends in college, but… everyone else was gone that summer. And we were together all the time anyway, she practically lived at my apartment when we were writing.” The physicist shrugs, tugs that auburn ponytail over her shoulder while Patty sets down her coffee, keeps her nod casual and hopes Erin doesn’t notice that she’s veering further off the beaten path of paranormal plot. 

“You miss it? I know you probably wouldn’t wanna go back, but. Sounds like you had something pretty good goin’, even if you didn’t have all the proof you got now.” 

“I won’t lie, it was pretty fun. We could _feel_ all the possibilities back then—even without proof. There was always a new theory or algorithm to work through, and Abby just, never got tired!”

The bashful grin that flickers over Erin’s face is a gorgeous damn thing, Patty wants to bottle it up—or at the very least, record that dreamy little sigh, maybe accidentally on-purpose play it for Abby, later. Get homegirl looking in the right direction; nudge that cute nose out of experiments and into her lab partner, maybe. 

“Her energy was so contagious, when we were writing, I felt like—like we could do anything. Like one day I’d wake up, and the entire world would _believe_ me.” 

Hell. She’s known Erin long enough to glean the woman’s got some serious esteem issues dating from way back when, and a panicky desperation to be accepted, believed—no wonder Abby swept into her life like a breath of fresh air, charging ahead together like academia was theirs to conquer. Probably gave bookish little Erin the thrill of her goddamn life just by listening, by showing her the love and trust she never found anywhere else, and Patty ain’t sure if that’s sweet or just real sad, but. 

Holtzmann’s right, they belong together. Are happier, _together_.  

Maybe to the unobservant eye Erin plays Abby’s foil nine times outta ten, but the more Patty watches them side-by-side, it’s mad obvious how stubborn, how damn _similar_ the two of them are—once you get past the synced-up technobabble and practically matrimonial bickering, it’s a truly beautiful thing. 

So while Detective Tolan here ain’t quite ready to testify in court, sure feels like she’s about to bust this thing wide open, leaning forward over her mug with a soft smirk.

“Yeah? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that’s just about come true, Ghost Girl.” 

“Yeah, well.” Her friend’s smile turns shy, cheeks blooming about as pink as her rosy plaid shirt—and maybe the jury’s still out, but Dr. Gilbert is looking like one _smitten_ kitten. “Abby never stopped believing in me. Even when I did.” 

“Erin honey, I think she’s always known you were worth believing in.”

With the way those pretty blue eyes light up, there’s a second where Patty thinks maybe, _maybe_ she’ll share: unpack some of those decades-old feelings buried deep and spread ‘em out like postcards for a place she’s homesick for, memories with Abby she’s missing. Creepy-ass haunted houses and some longing looks across creaky floorboards, sounds exactly like their weird kinda romance.  

Except it’s the same second somebody decides to take a colossal spill up the steps, sounds like that time the B train jumped the tracks and Patty resigns herself to a stalled interrogation, on the edge of her seat before boots start clunking upstairs again, slower than before.

Cancel cleanup on aisle three, then.

And both Abby and Holtzy got about the same grace and poise of a three-legged horse in a life raft, so when her baby pokes that frizzy head above the rail with a danger-zone grin—no visible bumps or bruises—Patty can’t blame herself for feeling relief.

The engineer hops the last step with a clumsy skip, ever so _slightly_ out of breath and crowing victory. “Feast your eyes, ladies! Your new pack, Pats, as promised.”

Holtzmann spins on her heel, jerks both thumbs towards the modified proton pack hugging the small of her back. Thing looks snug with a single thick strap running over her left shoulder, looped like a sash around the bottom of her right side, and when girl shimmies her hips for a frontal view she’s showing off a thinner band, pulled taut across her ribs like an extra underwire.

There’s a thigh holster too, has the proton wand jammed inside and Patty’s already on board—ready to get up-close and personal with Mark II here, get back to Erin after. Still a woman on a mission, she’s just taking a slight detour down engineer avenue, first.

“Ooh, Holtzy! Lookin’ good, babe.”

“It’s _beyond_ question that _this_ is the one, Pattycakes.”

Last attempt’s still fresh in her mind but Patty’s fucking _determined_ to make this work, it’s been more than a couple days and this one-shouldered deal might just mean the price is right—in fact she’s banking on it. Pushes out from her chair with a scrape of tile, Patty surrenders herself to the mercy of Holtzmann, who’s quick to jump her with buckles and straps galore.

“Right shoulder will have _not a clue_ you’re even wearing a pack.” Holtzy’s reaching up to slide the main strap over her head and Patty allows herself to be maneuvered into position, obediently taking the offered gun to give her girl free hands for fastening.

“Let’s keep it that way, don’t think she’s forgiven us for last time yet.”

With a jerky nod the engineer takes a step back, hands on her hips as she clacks her teeth, prowls around checking straps.

“This is great, can’t feel it pulling or nothin’.”

Back up front, Holtzy weaves her head under the praise, dancing to the side and waggling jazzy fingers towards the table, tosses their team redhead a bone.

“Your sling gave me an idea. But I can’t take _all_ the credit. New strap configuration was Erin’s creation.”

Sloshing her mug at the unexpected mention, Erin hastily gulps down her coffee, clears her throat like she’s guest lecturing. “Um, _yes_. Holtzmann’s original design scaled down was a good starting point, but the weight distribution just needed a little work. By altering the wand placement you eliminate the issue of overbalance, and a one-shouldered pack offers you more freedom of movement.”

The engineer nods, rocks in place with another overbite of almost-grin. “Yeah. More _bounce_ for your buck.”

These two playing ball on the same team for once feels like a goddamn Christmas miracle, and Patty’s duly impressed. “Well, I’m glad y’all put your heads together long enough to figure this out. Thing’s perfect, baby.”

Holtzy’s got a smudge of grease down her cheekbone, wrinkling up the crease of that million-dollar dimple when she beams, fingers the loose end of the chest strap like an afterthought. Of course that’s when Erin props up a hair-splitting frown, knocks that smile right off in the next minute like a carnival dunk tank.

“Abby did mention it’s not as powerful. Holtz, maybe you could try adding the injector earlier, so the MSPS can get up to speed sooner—”

“—I could _not_ calibrate the synchrotron to rotate _any_ faster. _Sure_ , the size helps but there’s less of a reserve in the cryogen to power the initial and subsequent _sustained_ ionization—”

“I know, I wasn’t saying that—”

Patty ain’t about watching this temporary partnership bust up before her eyes, but Erin’s already beet-red when Holtzmann scowls in her direction, tone blunt.

“—I _would_ _have_ to make the RF amplifier twice the _weight._ Which would throw the rhenium and the plasma _out_ of sync and cause all the contemporaneous reactions to fluctuate—”

“I was _merely_ suggesting the injector be inserted sometime _before_ the power cell coupling—”

“Okay, ladies, that’s great, thanks.” The friction in the room’s started throwing sparks and Patty wants _off_ , steps smack in the middle of this building implosion long enough to break their line of sight, feeling like an underpaid Nets ref. “Yo, _enough_.”

Takes just a minute and Erin’s retreating back into her mug, but Patty’s only got eyes for Holtzy when she lowers her voice to something gentler, upbeat. “Like I said, thing’s great, sweetie. Don’t need no more power if you say it’s good.”

Holtzmann won’t look at her longer than a blink, mutters at the floor instead as she twists fingers round the sized-down wand, taps her foot. “Any increase and it’s unstable. Could hurt you, Patty. Don’t want that.”

“I know, honey. Thanks.”

Then, cos it’s true and Patty’s itching to bring back that psyched-up grin, she slips into teasing like her favorite hoodie, the one she found stuffed under Holtzy’s pillow last week. “Thing’s a lot comfier than the big ones. You thought about changing the straps?” 

Holtzy passes over the wand, starts in on her thigh belt even though Patty can _do_ it, lets her girl help instead. “I did carry out a test actually, and it doesn’t scale up. _Shame_. We could have had shoulder-mounted _laser_ _cannons_ with the added space.” 

“Oh, damn. So on second thought, I think I like our pack straps just fine as-is.”

Only her baby would take a rebuff on laser cannons as reason to wink, but her mood’s buoyed back and that’s enough for Patty, hypnotized watching Holtzy’s scuffed hands flit a return over her myriad of buckles and straps, and tryin’ not to think about how nice it feels, being touched. 

Girl finally steps back with a cheery slap to Patty’s thigh, apparently satisfied with the holster. “There. Don’t want it too tight.” 

“Feels good. Secure.” Patty holsters the wand, licks her thumb and drags Holtzy in by an elbow, corrals her engineer long enough to wipe the grease out of her dimple. Catches those bright eyes on hers and thinks maybe, _maybe_ this is where she’s been headed all along; her new pack might as well be a rocket to the moon, knows Holtzmann would build her one if she asked. Could.

So Patty’s releasing her once that smudge is about as good as it’s gonna get, but can’t stop her thrill when Holtzy doesn’t go far, when girl looks her over with a grin instead and throws those flailing hands to the roof, whoops loud enough to make Erin flinch.

“ _Annnd_ , she’s back!” 

 

***

 

“Baby, why don’t you get rid of that and actually take a look around.”

Holtzy innocently floats those hazy blues up from her map, blinks behind ochre lenses like the suggestion’s an unforeseen variable in the experiment that is seeing Patty, see the Met Breuer. “Navigating. Don’t want to miss the best bits.”

Patty snorts. “You’re damn well missing everything, including those.” 

The engineer’s had that sharp little nose buried deep in her map since the top of the stairs, and Patty’s all about experiencing art in your own unorthodox way: last time they tried the main Met as a group, she’d tracked down Erin teary-eyed in a room of Degas, and Patty can respect that. But you don’t go to a concert to count ceiling tiles, so in the end she gives her baby a gentle nudge, reminds her to live in the moment. "I can show you around better than that thing."

In answer, Holtzy tucks the map cryptically inside her leather jacket—Patty’s not so sure she’s even got a pocket in there—with a quiet smile tugging at the edge of bubble-gum lips. And if she’s turned her focus back to the gallery around them, maybe she won’t catch Patty stealing another glance.

Girl’s piled on more of that signature metallic-grey eyeshadow than usual, smokey-eyes smudged _just_ right, and her blush looks darker too—almost like she spent some extra time in front of the mirror, reminds Patty of that night in the club.

Reminds her not to think about it.

They’ve drifted to stand in front of a barber shop scene, acrylic on canvas with black figures bright against a light patterned backdrop, and she offers her girl an elbow, grins when Holtzy melts against her side like she’s been waiting for it. 

"So what's this one about? I suddenly can't read."

There’s an information panel on the wall beside the canvas. Patty ignores it.

“Right, well see, Marshall’s one of those artists that’s changing the game, just by painting black people existing. He’s challenging this centuries-old idea in so much of western art by insisting that we belong, that we have a place in art history and to be honest, if I saw an exhibit of his in college, I mighta switched my major. It’s hard to look at six hundred-plus years of art and be feelin’ invisible in most of it, no matter how beautiful it is.”

“Huh, never studied him myself. Not surprising.” Holtzy’s gaze is riveted, scoping out the work with an absent scratch to her chin. Patty can practically see her dissecting details, filing them away for further consideration. When she finally commits herself to focus, the results never fail to impress. 

“I like the colors.” Holtzy points towards the canvas, splaying her fingers out in motions to the lines streaked and blocked out across the scene. “And the strong shapes.”

“Always noticed that about you, baby. Bright colors and patterns your jam, huh?”

“Yeah. More interesting. Hell is a room full of _beige_.”

“Mm, can’t argue with that.” Patty’s gaze flicks over the painting again before she lets it wander back to the woman at her side, working hard to shove off from this compulsion to study her instead of the painting. Feels like she could already write her dissertation on Holtzmann, pass with a rainbow of flying hues. “You’ve seen my hair, can’t decide on just one color. The brighter the better.”

Holtzy turns her head and flicks a fanciful glance up to Patty’s braids, smile on her pretty little face like a secret she’s been keeping. “I have bets with myself.”

She blinks away but that leading smirk looks like she’s waiting for Patty to pry, starts a thrill in her thudding chest. “Yeah…? ‘Bout what.”

“Which colors you’ll be wearing when you come into work.” Girl rocks up on her heels like maybe the confession’s one she’s been keeping _awhile_ , definitely doesn’t make Patty feel special. Or blush. “My heart is _crushed_ that you’ve never had lime green.”

“Lime green?”

Holtzy jerks her chin, eyes sparkling and it’s like somebody’s just dumped all of Patty’s feelings for this girl in a 12-speed blender, plugged it into a rocket engine and churned out the world’s most emotional smoothie, in space, because why the fuck not.

Why the fuck not, Patty thinks, grin just about splitting her cheeks as she reaches up with a free hand, pats at her braids. “Bet I could find some.”

Her baby reaches up like an absent little mirror, fluffs at her own curly hair with a wild show of teeth and somewhere in the back of her mind Patty knows they’re just standing around grinning at each other, art shoved thoroughly to the back burner. And suggested ticket prices for the Met ain’t cheap, but uh. Sure feels like she’s getting her money’s worth. 

“Um _‘scuse_ me, Ghostbusters…?”

The chirpy question brings color theory with Holtzmann to a screeching halt, has Patty’s brows scoring up her forehead as they wheel in arm-linked unison—and come face to itty-bitty face with a hopeful pair of fawn-brown eyes, attached to a boy who barely comes to Holtzy’s hip. Kid can’t be more than four or five, and judging from the sticky-fingered grip he’s got on her girl’s jacket sleeve, he’s just found his hero.

Not to mention the triumphant grin across his chubby face, awestruck. Patty can’t blame him. “You’re Holtzmann!”

Holtzmann’s lips twitch. “I think I might be.”

“I saw you on tv. You’re more taller than I thought. D’you see any ghosts here? Mom said no but maybe she just doesn’t know. When I play with my sister she’s always the ghost cos she’s only a baby. She doesn’t know how to do _anything_ yet.”

Little guy’s chattering miles a minute but Holtzy’s already dropped to one knee, nodding solemnly along with every word, attention undivided.

“ _Nasir!_ I told you to stay _right next to me_ —” 

Oh dang, Patty knows that tone—and judging from the way kiddo ducks behind their engineer looking contrite, so does he. A glance over her shoulder reveals a woman hastily steering a stroller in their direction, face fraught with momentary panic, and Patty aims her a smile, gestures to their pint-size friend currently peeking out from behind Holtzmann.

“He’s okay, hi. I’m Patty.”

“I'm _so_ sorry. Hello.” Nasir’s mom heaves a flustered sigh and tugs her stroller full of sleeping baby to a gentle standstill, sends her son a _look_ that reminds Patty of her own mama, and sitting on the time-out stoop. "I know you. _Of_ you. Patty Tolan. We have your action figures.”

A look back to Holtzmann and her tiny admirer finds them sizing up the moment in wide-eyed stares before the engineer double-blinks, turns to Nasir with a jaw-dropping gasp. “We have action figures?!”

Meeting fans of the Ghostbusters will always feel surreal, because the mere idea that Patty Tolan, former MTA worker and age none-of-your-damn-business, has fans still shakes her brain like a fresh-print polaroid. (Except that for the gyro cart vendor on 53rd that keeps asking her and Holtzmann for autographs every time they pass by, Patty’s pretty sure he’s selling ‘em on eBay.) But action figures? That’s next-level.

“I’m really sorry about this, Nasir knows better than to interrupt.” The woman adjusts her wine-red hijab with that trademark Parent Look, exasperation and fondness rolled into one. “He saw you on the news a few months ago and he’s been begging me for Ghostbusters _everything_ , ever since.”   

“Aw, no worries! He’s real cute.”

A glance to the pair at their right sees Holtzmann with one hand jammed in her bottomless pockets, makes a face like she’s rummaging before digging out a matchbox car—bright red, racing stripes, makes Nasir light up like New Year’s fireworks, and Patty grins.

She’s watched her girl stim with it before, keep those twitchy fingers and electric brain occupied by spinning the wheels, driving it over her palm. Patty hopes her baby’s got another if she's parting with this one, even if the soft look on Holtzy’s face makes her heart fold like a paper umbrella.

Holding out the car for show, Holtzy winks, then makes it vanish with a theatrical wave as her audience gasps, spellbound. And never mind that Patty can see it’s only tucked under the thumb of her other hand, girl might as well be David Copperfield with that kinda reception. When she brings it back, gifting it to her newest friend Nasir clutches at the car, smacks a free hand to his forehead like fifty pounds of shock and awe.

“ _Mom!_ ”

Gets Patty thinking of their leftover loot bags from Halloween, still collecting dust by the copy machine—there’s gotta be some extra shirts in there too, and she can get Holtzy to throw in an autograph—turning to Nasir’s mom, her idea’s already half-formed.

“You wanna swap emails? I can send him some swag.”

Holtzmann’s still on her knees, showing little man a variation on the same handshake she’s seen her slap on Abby countless times. Nasir’s faster. 

“You’re a lifesaver, _thank you_. His birthday’s next week.” 

“Sure thing. Y’all want a picture?” 

They cram together for the photo, Nasir up front with a hand on each of his shoulders, she’s bumped against Holtzy with a skinny elbow in her ribs. Reminds Patty of class picture day, tall kids in the back, grinning and jostling with your best friend. She was always in the back. 

“On the count of three,” Nasir’s mom calls, and the engineer clacks her teeth, polishing up that winning smile with a lopsided tongue and it’s such a quintessentially Holtzmann thing to do, Patty feels her heart reach out, move her limbs without askin’ her brain. Curls an arm round her baby's waist with that heart doing handsprings across her chest, tugs Holtzy even closer, hip to hip behind the beaming little guy up front. 

Just before the flash goes off, she feels her girl’s gaze slide up to her, warm and bright, and being _happy_? Feels like this.

 _Click_.

 

***

 

They end up sitting in a diner halfway down the block, after twenty minutes into the fourth floor’s Diane Arbus exhibit Holtzmann started smacking her lips and _hmm_ -ing, in a way that had diddly squat to do with photography. Girl’s more predictable than clockwork, three times a day not accounting for snacks; Patty could set a watch by her stomach. 

Now sprawled in the booth against her, the engineer in question lifts her chin just enough to reach the straw in her Frankenstein milkshake, hooks her tongue around and starts slurping rhythmically. Those combat boots are squeaking on the plastic upholstery opposite while Patty sighs.

“It’s just a lot harder to keep pace with you three, especially talking math and physics. I’m a fast learner but y’all go off on one, and all this science stuff starts flying over my head. Feels like I’m runnin’ to catch up all the time.”

Holtzy crunches her straw, lets it hang wonky outta the side of her cheek with a pensive frown. “Those textbooks not helped?”

“They have, but, _baby_. I’m not gonna understand something in a week that’s taken the rest of you decades to wrap your heads around.”

A pause while the engineer blinks, furrows her brow like she’s scraping up a particularly detailed memory. Frothy pink and chocolate sauce blur down the side of her glass like modern art.

Patty gives her a minute to sift through her thoughts, basks in the greasy-rich goodness of seasoned diner fries when Holtzmann finally speaks.

“I can’t listen sometimes. Takes me a while to grasp what Erin and Abby are talking about. If they write it down, I can get it.”

The confession’s a surprise, but the content ain’t. As long as Patty’s known her, Holtzy’s always had trouble focusing, parsing social cues and body language. She sees the world through a different lens, her own unique shade of gold, and they’re all better for it. But girl’s a hands-on learner, and verbal communication without visual aids or diagrams probably melts into gibberish around her ears, the same way it does for Patty.    

“Yeah, I can see that.” She twirls another fry through the puddle of ketchup, fingers coated in salt. “Erin was real sweet loaning her books, but I guess I need something more basic to start.”

“We _could_ take a peek at some of mine together. _Study_ partners.” Holtzy’s scrunching her brows, shrugs a singular shoulder and snags a bundle of fries, shovelling ’em in like they’re going out of style and talking around her mouthful.

“I haf textbooks. _Old_ but. Could get newer edishions, updated. Shlap them on ‘spenses.”

Crooked little smile, then back to the milkshake. Patty’s watching the cherry on top of the cream disappear beneath the rim of her frosty glass as her baby sucks up the drink in little bursts, cheeks puffing in and out each time like a frog.

“Ooh, actually. The Strand’s got a textbook collection about a mile wide, I bet we could.” Jaunting through Manhattan’s better used bookstores with her girl sounds like today’s perfect sequel; Patty’s not about this adventure ending quite yet. “I got therapy again tomorrow, but I’m free after.”

Lets that dangle when Holtzy comes up for air with a noisy slurp, wiggles in her seat so her sharp hips bounce against Patty’s, hopeful grin tilted like invite-only. 

“So, you wanna?”

There’s a bead of milkshake dotting her bottom lip, pink on rosy pink and melting down her chin. Patty bets she tastes like strawberry, like pistachio-mint and a brain freeze, like freshly fallen snow in Central Park.

“Do what?” The shake’s still there. Can’t blame a woman for being distracted.

“Learn the basics. With me.”

Does she ever.

Blinks herself back to reality instead, just in time to clock Holtzy cramming in another fistful of fries, _so_ many fries they’re stuck out like she’s swallowed a broom handle-first, which is charming in a human-disaster kind of way. “Sounds like a terrible idea. I’m in.”

Girl aims a smirk full of starch and tucks salty hands under that messy bun, slouching deeper into Patty’s side with her boots peeking out from the other end of the table, then puffs out a breath like she’s got something to say. 

Patty waits.

“The little boy, Nasir. Told me when he grows up, he’s going to be an _engineer_. Because of me.”

Holtzy’s not looking her way, instead sliding her shake off the table to inhale another melodramatic sip of melting cream, condensation dripping off the bottom of the glass right into her lap.

“Oh, sweetie. That’s awesome. You oughta be proud.”

“I am. I definitely am.” Shoving the glass back onto the table with a clink, Holtzy shows that quiet little smile she saves for herself like a reward, when she’s coaxed a particularly tricky circuit into success. Patty’s definitely not been keeping track of those smiles. “Makes me _happy._ ”

“Yeah? That’s pretty high praise. Inspiring somebody’s future career.”

Holtzy nods. “Never had anyone myself when I was that small. Might have helped.”

“Helped, baby?”

There’s another pause, stretches thin as Holtzmann slowly turns that smile on Patty, taps two fingers to her temple, bittersweet. “Someone to latch my focus on, clear up my head.”

It’s not—has _never_ been—Holtzy’s fault, brains are fickle damn things and Patty finds herself looking down, into those extraordinary eyes and wanting to say so much, lips moving without words because none of it feels _enough_.

“I… _Holtzy_. I get that, but. You’re _amazing_. I can’t do what you do, messin’ around with lasers and ghost traps all day, making them from scratch, like. Look at you. You’re a goddamn genius, baby.”

Ducks her head, Patty maybe thinks she’s going to clear her throat or say something to jolt them out of the moment but it never comes, Holtzmann instead shows her smile, stronger than before.

“Have Dr. Gorin to thank for that, wouldn’t be me without her. Wouldn’t be here, probably.” Holtzy’s eyes are dancing like she’s borrowed the stars, and seeing her so proud makes Patty grin all over.

“Was my first professor in the masters program. Took an instant shine. And can you honestly blame her?”

“With your cute little face and knack for explodin’ everything in sight, how could she resist?”

“Precisely.” Holtzy chins another nod, gazing off into the middle distance six booths down with her lights dimming, like she’s remembering something she doesn’t want to be. The smile’s slipped off her face.

“It was her lab I blew up. Luckily she wasn’t there. Was just me, and Coma Fred.”

Patty knows, has heard enough from Abby to guess the rest. Holtzmann’s begrudging lab partner, an explosion gone wrong, and girl losing her ticket to CERN in the space of seconds, but somehow dodging jail and little worse than a mild concussion. Never heard it from the woman herself though, so this is a first.

Patty’s not sure if she likes it.

“She handpicked us for that project.” Holtzy dips her head, voice shaking with a fierce, wild love that’s suddenly hard to hear. “She made everything go away.”

For months now, Patty’s been mentally delineating her own life into B.G. (Before Ghostbusters) and P.A. (Post-Apocalypse), and there’s a part of her that wonders if Holtzmann has too, cos this is more than she’s ever heard about the past from her girl’s lips, misadventures through Europe notwithstanding.

Feels like trust, even more than before, and Patty returns it with a soft nudge.

“She knew it wasn’t your fault.”

Holtzy looks unconvinced, gnaws her bottom lip with a shrug.

“She saw potential in you, Holtzy. Bound for greatness.” Patty’s not done, gives her baby a little prod in the arm, reminding her with a smile. “Like savin’ the world.”

Holtzy’s grin flickers, then strengthens into something fond and amused and she taps at Patty’s thigh, suddenly buoyant.

“You always know just what to say, Pats. That’s a rare gift.”

“As much as I talk, statistically I gotta come out with a few gems now and then.”

“No, _always_.” Girl dives back into her milkshake with unhampered gusto. “Like a golden goose but, for _gems_.”

Patty’s resting her arm around the back of the booth, with Holtzy’s untidy hair flapping against her shoulder from the vent blasting hot air over their heads, this feels easy. Feels like they’ve been here fifteen times before, down to the double-goddamn-take Patty pulls when her baby starts vacuuming up the last crumbs on the plate, cos there was _definitely_ twice as many a minute ago.  

“Okay, not so sure I like that comparison.”

“And to conclude, I owe Gorin everything. Even if she did kick me out of her place that one time.” Girl claps her greasy hands, jerking her chin matter-of-factly. “Oh yeah, I called her Becky. _Yeesh_. Zero out of ten, do not recommend.”

“Wait, you lived with her?”

Holtzmann just smirks around her fries, which is when Patty smacks an excited palm against the tabletop hard enough to make her hand sting. “Oh my god, storytime. _Dish_.” Girl’s becoming less and less of an enigma by the day, slowly unfolding all those closed-up secrets like petals to the sun and Patty is _living_.

“Except actually, first you can go buy us another order of fries, cos don’t think I didn’t notice you ate ninety percent of these.”

Evidence still in mouth, Holtzmann nods like she’s been expecting a callout, fishing somewhere in her torso with both hands. “I’d be _more_ than happy to.”

Almost earns herself another double-take when she dredges up a battered billfold that looks cut from the same leather as her jacket, has Patty feeling left-footed at the sight. Like finding Mothman at the bus stop, or the Loch Ness monster at the local pool, and making eye contact by accident.

Patty didn’t even know she _owned_ a wallet.

“Baby, where you been keepin’ that thing? Bet Bigfoot’s had more sightings.”

Holtzy wrinkles her nose in a silent laugh, voice husky as she pulls out some crumpled cash. “Wouldn’t _you_ like to know.”

“I do. I just asked.”

“Inside pocket. You’re the only one who knows, _shhh_.” Girl leans in with a finger over her lips, bats those baby blues in a way that makes Patty maybe sweat behind the knees, and then she’s vaulting out of her seat, and ambling towards the counter like a fish out of water.

Takes a minute before Patty realizes she’s left the elusive wallet open on the table, and if it’s stuck right under your nose it ain’t snooping. Which is how she learns that Holtzmann has exactly one ATM card, a driver’s license dangerously close to expiring, and a free bowling pass to her name. Also a two-dollar bill wadded up, shoved behind half a stick of Zebra Stripe gum; and a photo flip sleeve with a glossy, too-small headshot of Dr. Rebecca Gorin. The picture’s creased and faded, like maybe Holtzy clipped it straight from an academic catalogue years ago, been keeping it close all this time. Makes Patty’s chest ache.

Now fully embracing this prying detective thing, Patty’s just nudging it over with her thumb and thinking she’s ready for anything, except coming face-to-face with _herself_ on the verso side—or more accurately, the Ghostbusters.

It’s a snap from the day their street sign went up, squeezed together for a selfie she remembers taking. Holtzy’s dead-center, flat goggles tugged down her face in a wild grin, and Patty’s got her chin resting in that mess of curls, Abby and Erin squeezed in at the side.

(“ _Yo Shorty, get in here_ ,” Patty had smirked, tugging her girl close and plopping her chin down even as Holtzy squirmed underneath, gasp of theatrical shock on her lips.

“ _My people take offence to that_.”  

Busy angling the camera to fit the cute little ghost in behind them, Patty’d slung a lazy arm over the engineer’s compact middle, captured the sign swaying over their heads with a dimple-popping grin and a nudge through her baby’s hair. Orange blossom and propane, ain’t nothing better.

“ _Your people_ …?”

_“The Shorts. A sensitive bunch but, I can take it.”_

_“Glad to hear it, baby. Now say cheese_.” The light had been perfect, sunbeams all over Tribeca, and Patty’d looked up long enough to shout for their fellow busters, engrossed in affectionately bickering as per. “ _Hey, Daphne, Velma! Get with the picture, literally_.”

“ _That makes Kevin Scoob, right?”_

Holtzy’s smug fucking grin and Patty losing her subsequent shit made it into the first six shots, at least.)

So maybe today’s full of all kinda surprises, but if Patty starts thinking about Holtzy carrying them around over her heart like a shield she’s gonna lose all the chill she’s been storing up, and that ain’t happening before she gets more fries.

So she swipes a sip of her baby’s abandoned milkshake instead, slurping up chocolate and berry-mint weirdness with a hint of nutty, hot fudge—tastes every bit as Holtzmann as she’s expecting, honestly.

And when she looks up, Patty’s just in time to see her girl fidgeting at the counter, one flitting hand behind her ear. Messing with her glasses, little absent tic; by now Patty oughta have ‘em catalogued alphabetically and by date, by the way they make her heart buzz like a hive full of bees.

And maybe Holtzy’s psychic, or maybe they’ve been together long enough they’ve started jamming to the same station, because that’s when her engineer turns around, zeroes that playful grin on Patty like a homing beacon headed straight for her heart and come to think of it, maybe Patty doesn’t need those fries after all.

Because across the diner, Patty settles against the booth and feels something vital— _primordial_ , shift on its axis, like New York and the earth and her view from it, because suddenly she looks at Holtzmann, and _knows._

Knows that this thing between them—this goddamn incredible, wonderfully problematic mess of feelings, tangled into this perpetually longing _thing_ —it exists as much as Patty does; will keep on existing whether or not she wants it to, and she’s not sure when it happened, but.

This stopped feeling like a problem _weeks_ ago.

And Holtzy’s on her way back to the booth, still grinning, still twirling a plate high over her head like the world’s worst waitress and humming _oooh, you’re my best friend_ under her breath; and outside the orange sky’s going dark in Manhattan, but Patty is in love, and it doesn’t matter.

It doesn’t matter because Holtzmann and Patty have _years_ of exhibits to see, and ghosts to bust, and milkshakes to conquer, in that order; and as long as the world keeps spinning and they keep running, side-by-side—this is all Patty will ever need, because being in love feels a lot like breathing, and not like losing anything at all.

“Handed the chef our compliments, she didn’t know where to put them.”

“Sounds about right. This is mine now,” says Patty, who steals the steaming plate of fries Holtzy’s just thunked down and thinks _I am in love. With you. And that’s fine._

“I’m giving you a head start this time around. Five seconds. _Go_.” 

Holtzmann’s smirking, slouching into Patty’s side and reaching for the ketchup bottle with that coifed hair bouncing, like an ice cream sundae with the cherry on top. Totally oblivious to the fact that she’s changed the shape of Patty’s heart like a topographical map of Mars, beating hot and messy beneath her favorite bomber jacket. 

“Ooh sweetie, _big_ mistake. Five seconds is all I need.” 

Being in love feels like watching her baby dive for fries anyway, like the goddamn seagulls at Rockaway Beach; like shoving her hand away and laughing her ass off when Holtzy pours ketchup on her fingers in retribution, the little shit.

“Oh, that’s real mature, Holtzy!”

“You _love_ it, Pats.” 

Like knowing that they’re better, _together_.

“Maybe.”

And that, is the opposite of a problem.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alternatively titled _hey, we heard you like slow-burn so we put some slow-burn in your slow-burn lmao kids i'm so sorry_
> 
> oh my god, this. CHAPTER. this motherfucking chapter, yikes on bikes, it got away from us like usain bolt on heelys, it ate my brain and grew fat off its indulgence, etc. this chapter is actually only HALF of what we've got, but it was way too much to cram into one place and i think it'll serve our girls--and the integrity of their story--a lot better as its own episode, because next one is our turning point, narrative-wise. also, this update has taken so much longer than we wanted it to, but real life's been brutal. just know that no matter how long updates take, this fic will _never_ be abandoned. we love patty and holtzmann too much, and we're committed to telling their story. 
> 
> thank you for being the best and most supportive readers! literally between here and [tumblr](http://thepratandtheidiot.tumblr.com/), your comments and love are the best possible thing and we gush over each and every one. you're fucking rockstars, and we love you. also special thanks to our dearest lettie for the french translation, and sweetest amy for the beta.
> 
> (also this is my own self-indulgence but like. have y'all seen the vid where leslie calls kate holtzy for throwing a croissant at her? because if not, [you're welcome](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ThI7jQmQ_sM&list=PLBPLVvU_jvGt61FgO7aYp3f5Krk1cSjR_&index=9).)
> 
> last final thing!! there is a 2016 ghostbusters fanzine, entitled "[the purpose of life is to love](https://sweetwinter.tumblr.com/post/160208966193/the-purpose-of-life-is-to-love-what-a)," looking for contributions. we plan to participate and encourage everyone to do so, because the world needs more love for our girls. 
> 
> drop us a comment, can't wait to hear what you think!


	9. going eighty on the highway, and i think you feel the same

If there’s a way to improve upon good news, Patty’s decided, it’s riding the J train thigh-to-thigh with Holtzmann all the way downtown, with that news running laps around her head like they’re going for gold.

Her cleared-for-bustin’ doctor’s note’s gone flimsy and damp from living in her fist between here and therapy, but three trains later Patty’s flying high. And with Holtzy joyfully dishing dirt on Soviet nuclear horror stories, there’s no place she’d rather be.

“—found six months after the meltdown. It’s only two meters wide but _hundreds_ of tons in weight— _two meters_ , Pats.”

“Whoa.”

Hopping the subway with Holtzy’s like spinning roulette, always gets Patty digging for the most roundabout route with fewest passengers guaranteed. It’s her legacy from more than half a decade repping for the MTA, and a few extra changes is _more_ than worth the way her baby finally unwinds when they’re alone.

“Like we made our own Franken- _star_.”

Thankfully it ain’t anything like peak time, since Abby and Erin snagged the Ecto for an early bust and the subway’s more attractive than a fifteen-block walk. Plans or no plans, Patty’s honestly kinda surprised Holtzy tagged along at all; girl hates a crowded train. But her company’s been doing wonders for the greedy little ache in Patty’s chest, the one that craves _more Holtzmann_ pretty much constantly.

“So this thing’s radioactive as hell, I’m guessin’.”

“ _Bin_ go.” Holtzy beams, taps the side of her sharp nose like she’s letting Patty in on a secret. “They built a huge concrete sarcophagus around the blown reactor. Used enough to fill the Empire State building a _third_ of the way up.”

“Shit. Y’know, the Empire State’s made up of 200,000 cubic feet of limestone? Even a third of that’s, like, enough to cover almost ten miles. Damn.”

There’s this particular kinda grin Patty’s noticed Holtzmann sporting lately, almost always shows when she brings something from her own historical background into play, marrying her love for New York to her baby’s freak-on for engineering.

Holtzy’s wearing one now. It’s doing a goddamn number on Patty’s _everything_.

Girl’s got one knee tucked up beside her, jauntily propped against the metal partition between her and the sliding door. Her other leg’s sprawled out in front and resting on Patty’s thigh like she owns the place, and maybe she does. Holtzy’s just about swimming in her tweedy trousers, biker boots half-hidden under oversized cuffs, but Patty can feel the heat of her layers deep. Don’t exactly help that her baby’s got those big, soft blues trained right on her, rolling a silver tally counter around her palm with clicks only Patty can hear, supersonic ears tuned to radio Holtzmann. And if loving this girl’s given her some kinda superpower, Patty’s dealing in a real niche market.

“What’s in it, to make it so powerful?”

Somebody left the window open over their heads so about half of Holtzy’s hair’s been yanked from its messy bun, acrid tunnel breeze slapping it back over her forehead every so often in frizzing coils that Patty _aches_ to touch.

She’s not gonna.

(But if she leans in a little, gets a face full of blonde and tangerine blossom when the car lurches to the left, she ain’t gonna go feeling bad about it.)

Especially when Holtzmann slouches further in her seat, like Chernobyl’s got nothing on her flashy grin. If that leg creeps any closer she’ll be riding the rest of the way to Soho in Patty’s lap.

“It’s made up of the uranium dioxide fuel that was still in the reactor when she tripped into meltdown—it was _ninety_ - _five_ _percent_ _full_ of fuel. Like a devil’s spitball of sand and glass and concrete and core shielding with zirconium-uranium-oxide in there. Melted _totally_ through the lower three floors before slumping in the basement. Like I did in college.”

“Hold up. You’re telling me this nightmare  _still exists_?”

“Oh, yeah. Much less dangerous now. Back then you’d die if you even stood near it; around five minutes of exposure would _seal_.  _your_. _fate_. Now; not so fas _t_.”

Holtzy’s got her free hand sliding up Patty’s jeans, tapping those spindly fingers on a knee like she’s lecturing, and Patty’d be straight-up lying her ass off if she said it wasn’t doing something for her, ‘cos this is where she lives now.

“To get a picture of this thing, they had to take a photo with a _mirror_ , around a _corner_ , because the first remote camera was _destroyed_ by the radiation it put out.” Holtzmann sighs dreamily as she flops back against the seat, crooked smile to match. “… _goals_.”

Patty’s phone buzzes against her hip as the brakes screech them into the next station, shaking off her smirk while she opens the text. It’s from Abby.

“Ghost girls just finished their bust,” she tells Holtzy, which earns her a tilted head, shock of curls dipped over one blue eye but her baby doesn’t blink, all those pretty smarts leaping ahead a mile a minute.

“We could branch out. Franchise ourselves. You and me Pats, second team.”

There it is again, _you and me_ —to Holtzmann they’re always an _us_ , a team, in cahoots to upgrade each other’s lives, if the last four months are anything to go by—and moments like these have Patty wondering how she’d gone so damn long without being part of that _us._

“I like the sound of that.”

Four months ago, three whack-job scientists waltzed right into the most financially-stable job Patty’d ever held and slipped her a taste of the most intoxicating cocktail around: adrenaline and joy, and sheer motherfucking terror all in place, and it was the most _alive_ she’s ever felt.

Alive and dying for more, because in the space of goddamn _days_ she was dropping MTA benefits and a steady paycheck for the promise of adventure, and the little voice in the back of her head that whispered _you’ll never be lonely again, not with these three._

And outta those three, the most electrifying one’s sat right here beside her, rocketing her to distant worlds with just a _look_ and a wink like a goddamn human starship. Like anything is possible with those nimble hands and gorgeous brain _en force_ , and Patty’s living each day like it’s a thrill and a half, because.  

With her? It is.

“How’re they taking your triumphant return?”

“Working on it,” Patty murmurs, fingers flying over her phone’s keyboard as she crafts the message, swaying against her baby’s shoulder when the doors shut, and their half-empty car rattles past Bowery’s dim-ass platform. Snaps a pic of her fraying doctor’s note and sends it along too, hype to play after nothing but bench.

_Warn the ghosts this bitch is back in TOWN!_

_aWESOME!!!1!_ Abby texts back, peppered with exclamation points in classic Abby fashion. Patty can practically hear her whooping across Manhattan even as she grins into her phone, tapping send on her own reply.

_Yep! We gonna hit up some bookstores, be around later_

Abby pings back, almost instantly.

_Try not to stay out all day. Holtzmann still needs to finish her work for the audit next week_

The goddamn _audit_.

Patty groans under her breath.

Only a bureaucratic hot mess like City Hall would schedule their inspection the day before Thanksgiving with two weeks’ notice; by now Patty ain’t even surprised. Although Jenny Lynch & Co. would probably be better off handing out turkeys to the homeless, maybe prepping for Macy’s annual instead of trawling the firehouse looking for ways to knock zeroes off the Ghostbusters’ funding.

The mental image of Mayor Bradley stumbling around with a frozen turkey on his head kinda makes up for it, though.

“Why are you smiling. What did Abby _sayyy_ —” Girl leans in all of the sudden, pop-eyed curiosity pawing towards her screen but Patty’s too fast, holds it outta reach with a chuckle.

“Nuh-uh, tell me more about this Elephant Foot mess. You got me keen.”

Her phone vibrates again but Patty ignores it, itching for the spark in Holtzy’s gaze. Her baby don’t disappoint.

“Me and Abby tried to go see it. The Ukrainian government? Not so easy to get a hold of.” Girl twirls her counter in hand, click-click-clicks her way into a jerky nod. “ _Or_ be persuaded with bribes. Abby found a guy online who stressed he could get us inside the exclusion zone.”

“Oh yeah?” Patty says, checking her phone with a cursory glance. Holtzy puffs out a sulky breath that makes her hair bounce.

“Higgins wouldn’t pay for the trip. _Blow out_.”

“Too bad. Bet you’d have loved causin’ an international incident.”

Holtzmann just smirks like that was her plan all along, and if Patty’s gotta bite her lip and throw herself into reading Abby’s newest text to keep from saying something stupid, she’s not feeling any shame.

_oh hey!!! We just got a call about a bust Friday nite. Ghost only there after 10. Tell Holtzmann!!!_

Followed up by an address that takes its damn time opening in Maps. Patty blinks up from her phone while the page tries loading again.

“Yo, Abby just texted about a bust Friday night. Looks like it’s in a bar? No wait, nah. Irish pub. Says the ghost only shows after ten.”

“I like that. Playing hard to get. Makes  _us_ go to _it_.”

Holtzy strokes delightedly at her chin like she’s having a vision, gets Patty’s heart racing all over the tracks as she piles on the bravado, slinks an arm around the back of her girl’s seat like it ain’t no thing.

(It _is_.)

“‘Hard to get’ means easy to zap, baby girl. You and me, we’re unstoppable.”

Holtzy slaps her thigh with unbridled glee.

“Your first bust back! _Gotta catch ‘em all!”_

The operator garbles something over the intercom about Canal Street coming up next, but Holtzy’s started humming the Pokémon theme, makes Patty laugh. Their car judders to a stop and the doors open, spit up a few scattered riders like a dragon with heartburn.

“So how much was this fated trip? Gotta be honest, kinda glad you didn’t go.”

Holtzy kicks her foot, slinking a bent knee out in front of her with a catlike stretch.

“Around seven hundred bucks. Not much, when you think about the fun we could’ve had.”

Patty’s one-hundred-percent confident exposure to lethal levels of radiation don’t fall under Merriam-Webster’s definition of _fun_.

“Don’t really wanna think about it, Holtzy.”

“Abby mocked up some research proposals to present—”

Which is when her girl abruptly screeches to a halt mid-sentence, intense gaze zeroing in on something past Patty’s shoulder that makes her turn a look. Trails Holtzmann’s focus down the car to a dented boombox on the floor that’s started leaking some house track she doesn’t recognize, her baby’s tally counter ticking along to the beat.

Break dancers, one twirling around the closest pole upside-down with his head skirting the floor makes Patty flinch on the inside, purse her lips on the out. She’s seen enough routines to know the difference between amateur kids hustling for some cash and real artists. Back in her MTA days even low-volume Seward Street saw its fair share of performers—this trio of guys ain’t nothing special. And glancing down the car, most of her fellow passengers look like they know it.

But when Patty slides another look to her girl, those soft lips are open in a gasp like Holtzy’s just discovered nuclear fission in her bowl of Lucky Charms. The tallest guy’s wiggling backwards on his hands, legs akimbo while he propels himself up the aisle.

One of the dudes flips the hat off his head like he’s tryna be Kid the Wiz, kicks it back on with less dexterity but his smile’s infectious, gets Patty chuckling because Holtzy is, in a word, _transfixed_.

Barely blinking as her hand creeps over Patty’s arm, Holtzmann’s twisting fingers in her sleeve without even looking. Like Patty’s the only thing keeping her from leaping up and joining in, flinging herself into a joyful cloud of synth-pop with both feet tapping on the floor, joy etched in every line of her expressive face because she’s here and _she’s alive_ , and she’s only just remembered.

Feels like watching her wake up, and Patty wonders if that’s what _she_ looked like, all those months ago in a poorly-lit subway tunnel, when Holtzmann leaned over a rattling cart of nuclear equipment and leered in her direction, and then they caught a ghost. And after six mind-numbing years in that damn booth, Patty woke up.

Except they’re already pulling into Chambers Street, and the tall guy’s passing his hat down the car, ducking under one of his partners where dude’s still hanging from the ceiling bar.

“Hey bro, we goin’ uptown.”

Holtzy’s already digging in the recesses of her jacket when the music dies an abrupt death, tugging out her wallet as the pole dancer hoists his boombox on one scrawny shoulder.

“Nah man, we headin’ downtown.”

“Oh shit, wrong train.”

Patty snorts, watches her baby land a couple bills in the proffered snapback as the dancers slide towards the exit, their upside-down boy somersaulting back to the floor with a squeak of grimy kicks down the aisle.

Girl aims them a two-fingered salute out the door but they’re long gone. Train’s already pulling away from the platform when she stuffs her wallet somewhere in that black hole of a leather jacket, still bobbing her head like she’s got the tune in her back pocket.

So Patty shoves down her grin, leans in real close while Holtzy’s rummaging, teases right into her engineer’s windblown hair, the warm pink shell of her ear. “Oh, so you can find money for break-dancing strangers but not for lunch, huh?”

“I don’t want to deprive you of the joy you get from feeding me, Pats. It wouldn’t be _fair_.”

Being big and black means getting stared at on the subway’s par for the course; Patty’s past caring when she throws her head back to laugh, loud and deep all the way from her gut like she’s here to shake the earth. “Holtzy, you too much.”

Fulton Street’s flickering past the windows like a roll of film as their train clatters into the station, and Patty nudges her before the car’s stopped moving.

“C’mon babe, this our stop. Once we hop the A train, only got about three left.”

Doors open with a _ding_ and Holtzy’s lips curl into something private, twisting the arms of her tinted glasses over each ear one at a time. Girl skips over the gap between car and platform as they duck the crowd, bumps Patty’s hip like she’s marking territory.

“I changed my mind about the subway. I like it.”

There’s a handful of commuters behind them heading for the stairs. Patty lets them pass as she stalls in the middle of the platform, pretends to be digging for her MetroCard instead of her chill.

“Yeah?”

Her heart feels soft and messy like a bruise.

“ _Yeah_ ,” Holtzmann says, like the first line of a book that’s gonna change her life. “You get me liking all kinds of new things.”

Grins all sly like she’s got Patty’s digits. Been dialling ‘em for weeks.

“Now, tell me about the mole people down here. I _know_ you’ve got insider knowledge.”

Patty heaves a big-ass sigh when they start up the steps, and Holtzy only laughs, and this ain’t even _close_ to how Patty was picturing her morning, but maybe that’s her favorite part.

“ _Girl_. And here I thought this was going so _well_.”

 

 

***

 

A long day trawling book warehouses is nothing new, but back in Bed-Stuy it’s nine-thirty at night, and Patty Tolan can’t seem to stop grinning.

 Between eight hours spent with nobody but her baby and a stack of new books she’s dying to sink her teeth into, Patty’s feeling pretty damn good about her first day back. They even scored ghost girls a weekend book signing in Soho, and that calls for a celebration.

So if she drags her trusty foot spa outta the linen cupboard, lights some candles, and melts her ass right into the couch with the remote and a tall glass of dusky Merlot, ready to flip through the cable box, it’s neither here nor there.

(If it’s anywhere, it’s probably dead-center over Patty’s heart, _bullseye_ , just thinking of earlier and Holtzy’s sharp little chin propped atop her stack of books, halfway through the firehouse door, a soggy mess from the downpour. And maybe Patty spent too long in the poetry section at the Strand, ‘cos stood there looking at Holtzmann all she could think was _no one, not even the rain, has such small hands_ —

Patty still remembers how those hands feel on her skin, teasing hot and laughing under pulsing lights, a thudding beat. Remembers how she never wanted them to stop.)

Show’s gone to commercials twice by the time Patty’s feeling good and relaxed, all her stiff muscles starting to unwind as she sinks deeper into her own little private world of coconut-scented zen. And hazing over the plot in a vague, definitely-gonna-have-to-watch-this-episode-again-later kinda way, Patty’s flirting with the thought of just hitting mute, working out the last of her tension the old-fashioned way—little bit of _ménage à moi_ before bed, works every time _._

Ain’t like she’s short on inspiration for getting down with her bad self. Wandering all day with the girl of her dreams has Patty biting her lip, slinking down into the cushions with that _need_ building in her gut.

Snaking a hand down the front of her leggings, she lets her mind wander back to dinner, dragging fingers in a lazy, slippery-hot tease that’s got her pussy paying attention.

(Dinner, two hours ago. _Moroccan_. Lamb tajine and couscous and _Holtzmann_ , slurping stew off her knuckles with a noisy _pop_ of those pink lips, grinning across their lantern-lit table and twirling Patty’s heart on a goddamn string.

 “ _Shoulda known you’d be into eating messy_.”

 Holtzy, smirking real slow, lapping date juice from her palms with that lazy tongue curled pink and wet around her fingers. “ _You remember my favorite food, Pats_.”)

Goddamn _right_ Patty remembers—last meal, favorite food, same fucking thing—and the thought of Holtzy face-deep in pussy is enough to make her wetter than Niagara, rolling fingertips around her swollen clit and feeling herself _gush_.

“Oh, _fuck_.”

Candlelight’s playing just right across the ceiling as Patty tips her head back, with a low groan, pushing in a finger and twisting _up_ , into silky heat and soaking her underwear.

 And it’s easy, _too_ _damn easy_ to imagine her here, Holtzy’s smug grin melting down between her thighs, callused hands gripping her hips, holding her down with that gorgeous fucking mouth—those _lips_ , _god._

Not a day’s gone by she hasn’t dreamt of this, imagining it now—replacing her own fingers with her baby’s, those fingers with Holtzy’s tongue— _fuck_.

Grinding hard against her hand and gasping, Patty’s so far past guilt she can’t think of anything but her honey as she spills both feet out of the spa, digs curling toes into the rug and moans, louder than she has in _weeks._  

“ _Baby_ —ah, _Holtzy_ —”

 Shit, shit she’s _close_ , three fingers stroking her g-spot and flashing up a memory of her girl in the shower, dripping wet and _naked_ , suds sliding down her gorgeous pink tits, the piercing that launched a thousand fantasies. Patty opens her mouth to scream, _so fucking close—_

Except there’s a familiar guitar riff leaking through the haze of sex, her stuttering heart; Electric Six starts wailing and Patty’s jerking her hand out of her pants, wiping it on her thigh as she gropes under the fuzzy afghan in a rush, she _knows_ that ringtone.

It’s Holtzmann.

Instantly more awake, Patty struggles to prop up against the sofa arm, puffing out a shaky exhale and nudging the phone to her ear like she wasn’t just fucking herself, like Holtzy’s ears ain’t somehow burning.

_“Baby?”_

A few seconds of static and Patty’s pounding heart, and the panicky edge of uncertainty is all she can hear—and then, softer, the clank of metal. A snapping sound. Someone shifting in the background, and music—bluesy, soulful. Less electric wail than Holtzy’s usual fare. Has Patty scrambling to place it before girl realizes she’s ass-dialed or the song fades out, heartbeat hammering over the rhythm in her ears when that familiar voice sounds husky, croons a few scattered lyrics under her breath.

“ _Mm, only heaven I’ll be sent to, s’when I’m alone with yooou..._ ”

Fuck, _fuck_ , Patty’s clutching the phone as her heart makes a goddamn break for the woman on the other end, alone in a firehouse miles away.

Feels like she’s been falling forever, makes her shake—this sudden wild surge of too many things to name, things she ain’t felt for somebody in _years_. Feels like she’s ascending to another plane just hearing her baby sing, low and sweet and _raw_ , like Patty’s never heard her before.

It’s so—so, _achingly_ intimate. Private.

Patty can’t make herself hang up.

Her baby keeps at it, chipping away at whatever she’s working on with the snap of propane, sizzle of hot metal. Hums herself through the melody, carving out a home in Patty’s chest big enough to fit all of Holtzy’s five foot nothing, and that nuclear hairdo to boot.

The seconds slip by as Patty drops back against the sofa cushions, heart on the line and a lump in her throat cos Holtzmann can’t hear, but there’s three little words quivering on her tongue and her mouth’s opening and, _fuck_ —  

“ _I love you_ ,” Patty whispers, and hangs the fuck up.

 

***

 

Seconds tick by in exquisite agony as she stares at the shadows on the ceiling, hand numbly gripping the phone on her chest in case Holtzy calls back. 

She never does.

 

***

 

Aside from a sore neck and the lingering guilt, and feeling like maybe mama did raise a fool, her morning after crashing on the couch leaves Patty oddly upbeat, hopeful. Like maybe last night was closer to a fever dream than anything else.

(The little distracted wave from the back of the containment unit when she strolls through the door, attached to a pair of rubber gloves attached to Holtzy, doesn’t hurt neither.) 

So now they’re all downstairs, and Patty's got headphones on, big chunky things like the pair she had attached to her Walkman back in high school. Listening to a recording of yesterday’s minor bust, Patty’s wishing they’d done this sooner. She’s betting their bust from hell would have had some _real_ ghostly gems outside the sound of her world flipping upside down, inside out.

And they haven't been able to prove anything yet, but Patty’s got a slam-dunk theory that spectral activity’s a lot more fluid than any human decibel range, easy. Dialling up the silence between all of ghost girls’ hollering should yield some results, at least give them a good case in asking for a top-of-the-line audiometer—this one’s a holdover from her baby’s days at Higgins, and it shows. Thing puts out more static than a pile of forks in the microwave, which Holtzmann’s done twice. Intentionally. 

Patty’s just isolating the volume field, tapping bored fingers on the edge of the table when something crops up—low and sonorous, like a voice bled down to nil and then played back through a tunnel. Hollow.

Like whispers from the void.

The word’s unintelligible but the sound creeps in, trails icy fingers down the back of Patty’s neck, makes her skin prickle. Reminds her of the time her boombox ate a Sade cassette, or maybe a garbage disposal in need of an exorcism. Could be a blip, a spot on the recording, _but_.

There’s something niggling at her. Patty spins back the tape. 

And just about shits herself when something taps her shoulder, shoving down her headphones with a yelp to see nobody there—till she checks the other side, sees Holtzy swaying against the table, posed all pretty like she’s been waiting an hour. Patty knows better.

“ _Dammit,_ Holtzy!”

 “Got any _plans_ later?”

Girl aims Patty two raised brows and that crooked toothy grin around a mouthful of gum, blowing out a lazy fat bubble like there’s nowhere else she’d rather be.

“Uh, _maybe_ —I mean, gotta finish this audit stuff first, baby.” Patty ducks a furtive glance across the lab, where Abby’s stretched out on the sofa checking calculations, socked feet stacked on a pile of Holtzmann’s battered notebooks. “You should too. Homegirl’s on the warpath.”

Holtzy shrugs and pops her gum.

“Okay.”

 _Okay?_ Feels _way_ too easy, and Patty’s waiting on an encore when girl fixes her with that keen gaze, drops a balled-up scrap of paper directly on the desk in front of her, then strolls off with sticky blue all over her face.

Patty slinks a glance from side to side, nerves curled round the egg bialy she choked down on her way to work, trying to fend off the cold sweats thinking _shit_ , this gonna be about last night—looks up again, but Holtzmann’s outta sight.

Makes her braver, enough to uncurl the note and read the graph paper, scrawled with green pen:

_Alley. You, me. 5 minutes._

_J.H._

There's a stick-person Holtzmann scribbled in the corner, decked out in oversized goggles and a ray-gun that looks straight off the Jetsons. Makes Patty wonder if Holtzy’s always done this, doodled herself a caricature with bug-wild eyes, smoke signals for hair before anyone else could.

She looks at the note again.

Traces her baby’s cramped handwriting, five little words without a whiff of _last night you said you loved me,_ or _whoops,_ _did I butt-dial?_ and if that’s true then hey, thank heaven for small, weird favors, like baby girl being ignorant as hell when it comes to Patty’s train wreck of a heart.

 _You, me. And the sheer exhilarating panic of being alone with you makes three_ , Patty thinks, crumpling green ink against her palm. Like she’s keeping a secret. 

“Hey,” Patty says, feels the lie building in her throat. “I’ll be right back, I got a. Thing.”

“Okay,” Erin nods, tapping away at her laptop like she’s aiming for a beatdown with Mavis Beacon. Abby scribbles into a notebook with an absent hum of acknowledgment.

Neither one of them looks up.

Patty bolts.

Out the back door is a sharp shock of cold November air, and she kicks around a stockpile of soggy old U-Haul boxes left over from their move. “C’mon ladies,” she mutters, greying cardboard decomposing into the pavement and man, they coulda sold those back. “It’s been _three_ months.”

 The sound of tinkering down the alley sets her at ease; usually now's about the time her baby does something crazy, like hand her a bazooka, or bellyflop directly into the nearest dumpster.

And if this _ain’t_ about last night, just business as usual, probably means Holtzy’s got some new toys and a hankering to show off, which suits Patty just fine—except then she turns the corner, and _bye-bye brain_.

Because around the corner, her girl’s bent over the shiny outline of a familiar-looking motorbike, denim pulled tight across that grade-A piece of ass when Holtzmann sees her and melts over the handlebars, hips rolling in a boneless slouch.

“Ain’t she a beaut?” 

Holtzy jerks a nonchalant thumb at the bike between her thighs, and if Patty’s having a minor aneurysm right about now, then it’s her own damn business.

“Yeah… Think I like her better without a possessed dude in the driver’s seat.”

The Ecto-2's been stripped down to riding condition, looks naked without all her duct-taped bells and whistles. Looks like laser guns and proton cannons and god only knows what else stacked up on the table six feet away. Patty’s focus wanes as her baby slithers off the saddle, stalks across the asphalt with a feral sort of smirk.

“What about _me_ in the driver’s seat?”

Something about her screams Bad Reputation, Joan Jett and every dumbass fantasy Patty had in her twenties about hooking up with trouble—stood here in ripped Levis and a leather jacket, smokey eyes smudged all to hell. Holtzy’s ditched her gum for a road-flare grin, twirling keys around one sly finger like she’s playing with fire.

“Let's go shopping.”

 It’s a goddamn Look, and Patty’s looking.

Probably a good thing Holtzy’s too busy stuffing her head in a helmet to notice, one of those open-face vintage deals that can't be safety first on anybody's list. It ain't exactly filling Patty with confidence even as she reaches out, fingers curling around the second helmet being offered to her now.

It's sleek, streamlined as hell. Heavy enough that Holtzmann must have dropped some serious money on the thing, even in her limited experience Patty knows this one's a top-of-the-line model: chrome and purple, with full head coverage and a clear visor. Tack on the fact that the whole thing's dappled in abstract flower designs and crowned with a rhinestone  _P_ , and Helmet No. 2 is looking like a custom-order with Patricia Tolan firmly in mind.

Which makes this all the more awkward when she blurts, like a fool.

"With  _you._ On _this?"_

Holtzmann tips her head to the side like she’s unraveling calculus, shrewd gaze narrowing down the length of Patty as her lips twist.

“You say that like it’s a _bad_ thing.”

 Doesn’t give Patty a chance to reply, popping on her helmet with a noisy snap of plastic buckles, batting long-ass lashes on a mournful sigh. “Don’t you _trust_ me?”

Girl’s got one lazy hip cocked against her ride, cinching straps beneath her chin with a sauntering whistle between her teeth, like this is happening whether Patty trusts her or not, and maybe that’s hotter than it should be.

There’s fifty different scenarios running through her head but they all end in Patty's trembling hands full of Holtzy, vintage Harley growling between her thighs. Maybe she's hallucinating or maybe it's Maybelline but the thought of getting on a bike and braving the streets of Manhattan is somehow  _less_ terrifying than knowing she's about to be cooch-to-ass with this girl, and  _jesus christ_ , Patty's already sweating bullets.

So like any woman crumbling headfirst into stealthy goddamn panic, Patty lets out a frantic chuckle watching her baby’s lithe fingers, bruised knuckles jerk the myriad of zips on her leather jacket like she's suiting up for battle, biting chapped lips. Stalling.

"Shopping where?"

"Scrap metal dealer. I need s _ome_ ... specifi _c_ parts to finish up the last of my audit didgeridoos.” Holtzmann spins on a booted heel, pops a smug little smile like she knows _,_ like she fucking _knows_ she could say anything and Patty would follow her to the ends of the earth.

"And I know you _love_ shopping." 

"Uh-huh. And what about that made you think, 'Oh. Let's take Patty on the bike, she didn't scream loud enough the first time'?"

(The first time. Before the world ended, when Holtzy dragged them all out for test rides and Erin refused to get on the bike at all, when Abby cheered and whooped but came back around the block looking green.

“ _Your turn, Pattycakes_!”

 The first time Patty wrapped her arms around this girl and squeezed, and only screamed a little, and Holtzmann threw her head back and laughed like a hyena all the way down Bayard Street.)

"You protest, but I can see the sparkle in your eyes." 

"Sparkle my  _ass_ ," Patty mutters, watching in dismay as Holtzmann throws a denim-clad leg over the bike and sinks down low, straddling the seat with those switchblade hips rocking Patty’s entire world, and this is _happening._ This is honest-to-god fucking happening when Holtzy reaches for the handlebars, revs the engine like a dare.

Patty's always been a sucker for a dare.

Though seeing as her baby's failed to provide a second leather ensemble and it’s the tail-end of autumn, Patty’s zipping her silky bomber jacket up to her chin on her way to the bike, tugging sleeves over her wrists to keep her hands from turning blue. She’s already freezing.

Leopard-print heels echo on the broken asphalt while she woefully stares down her undoing, wrapped up in a pretty package of tight leather and growling cylinders and Holtzy's motherfucking  _ass_ , and Patty's about to get  _on that._

And it's like someone cracked the safe to her favorite lesbian fantasy and fed it some Miracle-Gro, because all of the sudden her baby's turning around with a crooked grin and all those laughter lines, gloved hands sliding around the rubber grips like she'd know her way around them blind, and Patty is  _undone._

“Don't squeeze  _too_ hard, just had breakfast."

Girl pats the empty seat behind her, then drops one smokey-lidded eye in a _fuck-me_ wink that’s got Patty’s pulse throwing itself off the fire escape and into oncoming traffic. Her hands are quaking like an addict as she feels for Holtzy's waist, twisting fingers into cracked leather to steady herself.

“Mm,  _yeaaah_ ,” Holtzmann purrs as Patty slides a thigh over the seat, gripping her baby’s hips and trying not to think about what she’s doing. Trying not to think _at all_ , which feels kinda like dumping gasoline on the already-blazing inferno formerly known as Patty Tolan’s brain.

“If you're talking about the slurpee and bag of Bugles I saw you crammin' behind the containment unit, I don't think you can call that breakfast." 

Her engineer knocks out the kickstand in response, and Patty's already hunching around Holtzmann's body when she jams on the helmet. Has to crush it to fit around her twisted braids, wrestling one arm tighter around this girl, then two; huddling snug into Holtzy's space even though this is hands-down the dumbest thing she's done all week. Her visor's already fogging up.

"Can't believe I'm messin' up my hair for this."

Her baby drops that pert little backside onto the leather with a goddamn _wiggle_ , throttling the engine with a grin over her shoulder and hollering through the roar. “ _You look_ great! _Like Audrey Hepburn. In Italy! Out of the right side of the bed!"_

Only gives Patty about half a second to appreciate the weirdest, sweetest compliment of her whole damn life, because that’s when Holtzy hits the gas with a hell of a kick and they’re off—and forget _Roman Holiday,_ more like Tribeca funeral because they are _gonna die_.

Screaming around the first corner at forty-five degrees is a rude goddamn awakening, pretty much shatters Patty’s biker babe fantasy to smithereens as she’s clawing hands into her baby’s soft belly, wailing through her visor.

“ _Oh my god, jesus_ fucking _christ_ —”

“ _‘Holtzmann’s’_ _just fine,_ ” her girl shouts back, knocks the gear shift into next week with a leer Patty can hear over decibels of engine, plastered against Holtzy out of sheer motherfucking terror.

Things improve mildly when they merge into traffic, in that they’re still alive when they swerve onto Lafayette riding a stiff breeze, and Patty stops yelling long enough to shut her eyes; she’s seen _Final Destination_ too many times to be watching this shit.  

Girl rolls off the throttle when they reach the first light, idling the bike parallel to the sidewalk, and Patty’s coherent enough to untangle a shaking hand and jiggle Holtzy’s shoulder.

“Mmkay, that’s it. Been real fun but I’m out.”

She’s pushing up her visor, trying to gauge how far they’ve ridden when her baby whips around on the saddle like a shock of lightning.

“No, _Patty_ , wait!”

And Patty’s still shaking, but she’s also weak as fuck. “For what?”

Holtzy’s begging as she fumbles for the hand on her waist, eyes wide like she’s seeing an experiment gone all wrong. “Pats, just, _wait—_ ”

Patty hears her voice echo inside her helmet, higher this time. “For _what?!_ ” 

Realizes too late girl’s been stalling for green when her baby kicks the bike into high gear, zipping ahead faster than the cars behind them as Patty digs fingers in between her ribs and hollers.

“ _I hate you!”_

Holtzmann cackles.

Buildings could be crumblin’ above their heads and Patty’d never know it, clinging to Holtzmann’s skinny hips and trying not to scream through a fogged-up visor, ‘cos girl’s moving this thing like she stole it. At least she ain’t swerving lanes like before. Fast-forward a few blocks, and it almost feels like Holtzy’s… being careful. Miles more than earlier at least, enough for Patty to puff out a breath, hugging her tight.

They pull up to the next light and Holtzmann pops the clutch, turns around long enough for Patty to see she’s gnawed her lip raw. Cheeks and nose windblown pink, like if she leaned in girl’s whole face would need warming up. Patty could take care of that.

“I brought you because, um. I might need some help. Bargaining. Use your magic words on the dealer.”

Patty stares, shocked laugh sputtering out of her. “Magic words? Like what, _manners_?”

“Your charm! You do that thing. Talk people around!” Girl spins her pinky in the air like it’ll explain everything, flicks a look to check the light.

“Baby, please tell me you ain’t bringin’ us somewhere we might get shot.”

Holtzmann sounds _horrified_ , waves her head like she’s got something in there she wants to shake out. “ _Patricia_. I’d _never_ put you in danger.”

Patty’s got enough evidence for the contrary to fill a small tanker but graciously lets this one slide, tries something else with a subtle little squeeze.

“So I’m charming, huh?”

The light turns green. Over her shoulder, Holtzy sparks a grin.

“You’re _revolutionary_.”

Patty hugs Holtzmann to her chest till all she can hear is her heart in her ears, and thinks about that for six blocks and a lane change.

They turn off somewhere after 36th when girl rolls off the throttle, puttering down a side street and then another, gears shifting like the tide when Holtzy pulls them down an alley, then up outside a scrap yard. Parks them on the curb cut, sets up the kickstand and then girl’s wriggling off the bike leaving her helmet in Patty’s now Holtzmann-less hands.

“Back in a minute.”

“Whoa, hey, I thought you wanted me to _talk_ —”

Holtzy’s already bounding up the sidewalk, aiming for an open doorway that looks about six times shadier than Patty’d prefer. “ _Two minutes!_ ” 

So Patty weighs Holtzy’s helmet in her hands, and thinks. Things.

Things like: does girl got a personalized helmet stashed away for everybody, or is Patty somehow the lucky winner, her one-and-only. And has Holtzy ever had a crush on a co-worker, ever wanted to act on it—because taking a girl for a spin and handing over a cute-ass helmet with her initials all over is one hell of a move. Then again, so’s the endless stream of weapons showing up in the lab, about half of ‘em with Patty’s name on, and there’s another thought. Unless she’s been deemed lab rat material without her permission, Holtzy’s sure been throwing a lot of gadgets her way lately, and is that engineer-speak for something she oughta be picking up?

Patty’s just starting to wonder if she oughta go inside when Holtzmann reappears, jangling out the door with those twiggy arms full of enough metal pipes and connectors to revamp Hell’s Kitchen about three times over. 

“Guessin’ you didn’t need me after all?”

Holtzy slides her a smooth grin, sauntering around to the back of the bike like she’s got nothing to lose. “I have some charm of my own, y’know.”

“Smooth criminal.”

Girl dumps everything in the basket with an ear-splitting clatter, starts bungee-cording over the top of it like that’s gonna keep things in place when the breeze starts flying. Patty lends the pile a dubious eyebrow.

“So what’s this for, exactly?”

Holtzy wafts a hand, full-body shrug too casual for comfort. “Weapons. Parts. You know. Important stuff.”

“Uh-huh. Don’t you have like, three of those L-pipe things back in the lab? Coulda sworn I saw at least three.”

In response, her baby moseys up to the side of the bike, throws a leg over and backs her caboose right into Patty’s personal business, nestling that tight little ass right between Patty’s thighs like it lives there. Talk about wishful goddamn thinking.

“Some _veeeery_ subtle differences between them, Pattycakes. Gotta have your eyes open.”

“The way you drive, girl, I’m having my eyes shut the _entire_ way back.”

Her engineer gently tugs her helmet out of Patty’s hands and plunks it on her head, locks in the buckle with a snap-crackle-pop kinda smile. 

“Whatever floats your _bo_ -dega.”

Then she’s kicking on the bike while Patty grips her hips and thinks _you_ , _actually._  

Outside a few casual honks, the ride back is almost criminally underwhelming. Almost has Patty wondering if girl picked up some rules of the road back there; Holtzy’s veritably pedestrianized herself with a speed somewhere between dawdling and legal.

Seems too soon they’re pulling down familiar streets, tires gripping the asphalt as they curve around three stories of firehouse, coasting back down the alley like they’re sliding home.

For once her baby’s gentle, easing the bike to a purring stop before she sets the kickstand down, flicks off the engine. Slides off her helmet real slow, shaking out her hair like it needs to breathe. Maybe it does.

Patty watches her shoulders hunch, feels the soft roll of Holtzy’s belly move as girl chuckles, twists around on the seat.

“See Pats, that wasn’t _so_ bad. Got you back in one piece, didn’t I?”

The breeze kicks up and maybe Patty’s dreaming it: the smell of burnt sugar and leather jacket curling up under her helmet like a fresh breath of Holtzmann, wind tugging wispy ash-blonde into something wild. Her roots show through where the dye’s grown out, tugs Patty’s chest with its clumsy, perfect imperfection.

And loving her, just feels. So _easy_.

Girl may look like a walking jumble of tetrahedrons but here in Patty’s hands, she feels like everything she’s ever wanted, filling all the cracks in her heart with marshmallow fluff. 

So Patty huffs a soft laugh, feeling full. 

“Yeah. My _hero_.”

Holtzy watches her with that smile curling up between them, the one that creases all her laughter lines. Makes Patty want to trace her lips as girl leans in, looking like she’s gonna say something profound and strange, and perfectly Holtzmann.

She’s barely breathing when Holtzy slides a hand to her thigh, then plants a puckered kiss to the visor of Patty’s helmet, hot breath lingering on the safety glass in a soft little puff of chilly November air. 

Patty feels it right in her chest.

When her honey pulls back, Patty’s heart’s parkoured up her throat, still staring when Holtzy suddenly vaults off the bike like she’s been burnt, slinging her helmet at the handlebars in a spin that’s near-miss for the asphalt.   

“Uh, well. I’m going inside. Work.”

There’s a cloud shaped like a kiss on her visor, and Patty’s hands suddenly feel more empty than they have in her goddamn life.

 “Yeah, okay. Me too.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so my guys, how's that crushing 2017 mood treating you, creatively?  
> (gotta love that depression brain fog amirite)  
> good news: we got through it.  
> better news: chapter ten will be up next weekend, and i can't fucking wait to share it with you. SOON. 
> 
> this is only half the intended chapter, but it's gonna do justice to our girls and their story (and i know i keep saying that but it's actually true this time). thanks for sticking with us, babes. a thousand kisses to our beautiful betas: [GGeek](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GGeek/pseuds/GGeek), [Maggie LovesBees ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MaggieLovesBees/pseuds/MaggieLovesBees), and [Amu](https://sapphic-ravenpuff.tumblr.com/). you're beautiful shining stars and we wouldn't be here without you. also, we're in dire need of ghostbusters content on our dashboard again: if you like, leave us a comment + your tumblr username and we'll slam that follow button.
> 
> now, onto the fun stuff:  
> 1) patty getting some! (or at least thinkin 'bout getting some. tomato, tomahto.) hello explicit rating, we're here to stay.  
> 2) patty 100% picked out her [ringtone](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d2KgoVyloPo) for holtzy after knowing her for like, three days.  
> 3) why yes there _is_ video of kate mckinnon singing That Song, and reader? I DIED 
> 
> and last but certainly not least:  
> we missed you.
> 
> (let us know what you think!)


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